


An Autumn of Spears

by vallhund



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: DO NOT READ THIS, I will warn you once and once only, If you like Brandon Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallhund/pseuds/vallhund
Summary: Forty years after the end of the Last Blackfyre Rebellion, and the return of flight to Westeros with the tamed wyverns that the Blackfyres used in their war effort, Aerys II Targaryen prepares to ascend the throne, as his father Jaehaerys comes to the end of his life. But while the Targaryens are in no danger of dying out in this world, with Aerys' four children all parents of their own, the old warning about too many Targaryens being as bad as too few rings louder than ever. His Queen and Mistress of Coin, Joanna Targaryen nee Lannister, must deal with a spendthrift Lord of Winterfell, and tensions within her own family, as they gather for Jaehaerys' funeral. Daeron the Younger, her grandson, a wyvern-rider newly released from the Iron Cloaks, struggles to keep from being sucked into the succession game, especially after meeting his mother's cousin, Lyarra Stark.And on Ironman's Bay, Lady Ulla Wynch, the last of the Blackfyres' allies still standing, nurses secrets of her own--and prepares to upend the peaceful state of the Seven Kingdoms.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Joanna I

**Author's Note:**

> You may notice similarities with A Dragon Resistant. I am that story's original author. I imagined this as a sequel, then realised that Dragon Resistant was getting bogged down.
> 
> The Iron Cloaks are roughly akin to the Dutch Marechaussee, or the Italian Carabinieri: a paramilitary policing force. They were founded to keep the peace in the Kingdom of the East
> 
> Halfmaesters choose to complete some links at the Citadel, and then enter into the practice of medicine, engineering, alchemy, tutoring the children of wealthy burghers, or other fields. Female halfmaesters are trained at Castle Rosby, which was founded by Princess Joanna after the Citadel refused to accept women.

_The Kingdom of the East was founded at the end of the Last Blackfyre Rebellion. Those areas that supported Aemon I Blackfyre—known to medieval Westerosi as the Riverlands, Stormlands, and Vale, along with the northernmost of the territories belonging to the extinct House Tyrell—were brought under the direct rule of House Targaryen. Following the end of resistance in the Vale, King Jaehaerys II completed the Marching of the East, dividing his House’s new lands into ‘marches’, each administered by a Lord (or later, Lady) Justice answerable to the Crown. The market towns of these areas were given charters, and privileges not usually afforded to Westerosi cities._

_The results were dramatic. By the end of Jaehaerys’ reign, the Kingdom of the East had nearly doubled in population. The widespread use of glass gardens, which enabled crops to be grown in winter, was a major factor, as was the growth of trade with Essos. Cities such as Harroway, Wendish Town, Fairmarket, Darry, Saltpans and the Crossing were larger than Gulltown or White Harbour had been before the Last Blackfyre Rebellion, while those older cities were of a size with Pentos or Tyrosh. Loyal houses such as the Freys or Graftons, who were allowed to retain their traditional privileges while being sworn directly to the Targaryens, also gained in strength._

_—From_ An Abbreviated History of Medieval Westeros, _Mantarys University Press._

HOUSE TARGARYEN, 297 AC

King JAEHAERYS II

His wife and sister SHAENA

{His sister RHAELLE, murdered by House Blackfyre at the fall of Storm’s End, along with her family}

{His brother DAERON, died before the war, while fighting outlaws}

{His brother DUNCAN, killed by House Tully during the Last Blackfyre Rebellion}

His son AERYS, Prince of Dragonstone.

-His wife JOANNA, of House Lannister.

-Their son VALARR, Prince of Summerhall.

—His wife ELIA, of house Martell.

—Their son AEGON

—Their daughter RHAENYS

-Their son DAERON (called THE OLDER), Prince Regent of Springport, in the former Vale.

—His wife BELARYS, of House Otherys in Braavos.

—Their daughter JAEHAEREA, a captain in the Royal Navy

—Their daughter JOANNA, a septa in Gulltown

—Their daughter HELAENA, a girl of two.

-Their daughter ELAENA,the chief wyvern-tamer at Dragonstone.

—{Her husband KARL OF STONY SEPT, a wealthy butcher’s son, died while in the Iron Cloaks}

—Their son DAERON (called THE YOUNGER), just released from his service in the Iron Cloaks

-Their son MATARYS, the Prince Regent of Stonehelm

—His wife TYSHA, the daughter of a baker in Lannisport

—Their twin daughters JEYNE and DAELLA

HOUSE STARK

Lord BRANDON STARK of Winterfell

His wife BARBREY of House Ryswell

Their son RODRIK

Their son EDWYLE

Their daughter DONELLA

His brother, EDDARD STARK, the Lord Justice of the March of Storm’s End.

—His wife ASHARA, of House Dayne.

—Their son MORS

—Their daughter ALLYRIA

—Their son BERON

His sister LYANNA, the chief engineer of the New Cut, a canal running between the Narrow Sea and Ironman’s Bay.

—Her lover TYTA FREY, Lady of the Crossing,

—Her daughter LYARRA STARK

His brother BENJEN, of the Royal Army, stationed at Harrenhal.

HOUSE LANNISTER

Lord LANCEL LANNISTER, of Casterly Rock.

His brother MARTYN, currently in the Royal Navy, stationed at the Sisters.

His sister JANEI, a halfmaester in the Royal Army, stationed at Harrenhal

His brother WILLEM

His uncle TYGETT, a Kingsguard

His uncle GERION, Lieutenant Commander of the Third Fleet of the Royal Navy (at Springport)

—Gerion’s daughter JOY, currently in halfmaester’s training.

HOUSE WYNCH

Lady ULLA WYNCH, the Lady Reaper of Pyke and the Iron Islands.

—{Her husband SIMEON PYKE}

—Her son DALTON WYNCH

—Dalton’s wife CALLA, of House Stonetree.

—Their son ELDRED WYNCH.

HOUSE HIGHTOWER

Lord LEYTON HIGHTOWER

His wife RHAELLA, nee Targaryen

\--Their son RHAEGAR, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch.

\--Their son GARTH, a knight

\--Their daughter DAELLA

The rain poured outside the towers of Dragonstone, and a man died within.

Sighing, Joanna drew a damp cloth across Jaehaerys’ face, noting grimly that sweat was already beading again. She had no idea, truly, what had brought her goodfather down. His health had been bad as a young man, she knew that, but he’d been hale and hearty since the end of the Last Blackfyre Rebellion.

 _I suppose it’s just old age._ The king had seen three-and-seventy namedays now, most of them on the Obsidian Throne.

“Not long now.”

Looking up, she saw Daeron enter the room, his face grim. Her second son knelt down beside the bed, his hands wrapping around Shaena Targaryen’s. The old woman, her hair still black despite the years, stared at her brother-husband’s face as though she could will him back awake, back to health.

“Is Val—“

“He got the raven, Mother. Whether he’ll be here in time, I don’t know.”

She sighed again, straightening up. Her oldest son would be the last to arrive, then. Summerhall was a long way away, even by wyvern-back, and the weather on Blackwater Bay was bad that night. _I just hope he makes it._

“Your father?”

“Still speaking with Mats. If Valarr stops at Storm’s End along the way, then…”

“I know.” She almost hoped that Val just rushed straight there, leaving Eddard Stark to make his own way from the capital of the former Stormlands, but… _No. This has to be settled, and sooner rather than later._

“Mother…he wants you to speak with Eddard.”

Joanna’s eyes widened. “Daer…”

“It’ll be after all this is done, and Father will be rushing around like a capon with the head cut off.”

“I…very well.” She wasn’t relishing the task ahead of her, by any stretch of the imagination.

“It won’t be long.” Shaena’s voice was hoarse from crying.

As Daeron put his arms about her shoulders, they heard boots in the corridor.

“How is he?”

Her husband had stepped into the room, followed by his sister and son.

At three and fifty, Aerys Targaryen was still barrel-chested and strong, his mace buckled to his side even now, at his father’s deathbed, his purple eyes shaded with grief. Rhaella— _Hightower at the end of her name or not, she still looks every bit the blood of the dragon—_ had her arms crossed, staring down at the father she’d never fully forgiven.

“Mother.” Matarys stepped forward, taking her hand in his own. His mismatched eyes, one green like hers, locked with hers. “I’m sorry I didn’t come up sooner, Tysha had to settle Jeyne into bed.”

“Dont apologise.” She was just glad to have him here. Joanna looked up. “Lady Rhaella.”

“Your Grace.” The two women had been at odds for… _gods, it’s been so many years._ Daeron had tensed up as well, the fingers of his left hand running over the iron that had replaced his right. Noticing the gesture, Rhaella nodded coldly, stepping backwards and leaving the room.

Aerys groaned. “Daer…must you?”

“Must I what?”

“The hand.”

“Oh.” He looked down in real surprise. “Sorry about that, father. I wasn’t trying to—I’ll go.”

Joanna followed him into the corridor as Mats took her place by the king’s side. Once the door closed, he leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t realise—“

“Pay it no mind.” Joanna had had quite enough of everyone catering to Rhaella’s grief fourteen years after the fact. _Not when I look at my son’s missing hand. Not anymore. No more pity for the woman who couldn’t raise her own son right._

“Do you know if she brought any of the others with her?” He asked quietly.

“Viserys and Garth should be here. Why?”

“If Val’s bringing Lord Stark with him…”

“ _Shit._ ” She turned and began to stride down the corridor. “You’re right. Find Mats for me!”

She heard him call something as she ran down the narrow stairs, already feeling a little out of breath. _Too much time behind a desk._ Joanna had ridden into battle and worn men’s mail as a young woman, at Tarbeck Hall and Stonehelm and even the last battles in the Vale…but that had been a long time ago, and she wasn’t as quick as she’d once been.

It didn’t matter. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she saw Elaena speaking with her Hightower cousins, her heart-shaped face lit up with some kind of laughter. Hoping to avoid Garth and Viserys, neither of whom she could stand, she kept going. _If Val gets here, I need to tell…_

There it was.

The high-pitched, whistling call of a wyvern.

Gathering her skirts in her hands, Joanna sprinted to the end of the corridor, and into the courtyard.

The rain was coming down heavily now, and she could just see a circling shape above the battlements. As the Princess of Dragonstone drew herself to a halt, her son’s wyvern— _Va_ _egon, this one is Vaegon—_ landed just in front of the quintains.

With two shapes, she realised, on its back.

“Your Grace—“

She shook off the maid behind her and ran through the rain, just in time for Valarr to sweep her into his arms as he climbed down.

“You made it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

She pulled back to look at her eldest son—the very image of the dying king upstairs, everyone agreed, with thin arms, a slight belly, and straw-golden hair. Valarr’s eyes were much warmer than Jaehaerys’ had ever been though.

“One moment, Mother.” He turned back to help the second man off the wyvern. “My traveling companion is a bit the worse for wear.”

“Aye.”

Eddard Stark looked wind-beaten, only dry because of the heavy leather flying suit that Valarr seemed to have leant him. As he stepped onto the ground, the Lord Justice of Storm’s End pitched forward.

“Ah, ah…easy, now. You’re all right.” Valarr slung the man’s arm over his shoulders.

“Val, your cousins are here. Maybe take Lord Justice Stark in by the side entrance?”

Valarr’s eyes darkened. “I see. Did—“

“No.” Joanna’s tone was firm. “Your father wouldn’t hear of it, not in a thousand years.”

He nodded, helping the Lord Justice through the pouring rain. Joanna sighed, absentmindedly scratching Vaegon under the chin. The wyvern almost purred, making her laugh a little.

_They really are like cats sometimes._

+++

Climbing the stairs, she realised it was almost over.

Aerys and Rhaella—Jaehaerys’ only children—were kneeling on either side of their mother, each holding one of their father’s hands. Joanna stopped at the door, waiting.

It felt like an hour before the maester looked up, sadness in his eyes. “Your Grace…”

“It’s done.” Shaena said flatly.

Aerys waited for a second longer, squeezing his father’s hand one last time, then standing up.

“Mother, sister, children…and wife.” He had caught sight of her at the last moment.

“The King is dead.”

There was a pause, and then Elaena spoke.

“Long live the King!”

It was an hour later that Joanna found herself back in the main solar, pouring over the sheaf of papers that Mats had set out for her. No surprises there, of course. She’d looked long and hard, as had Aerys, before they’d taken this decision.

But the story that the ledger pages told her was still shocking.

“Your Grace?”

She looked up to see Eddard Stark already at her door, changed into dry clothes, with her cousin beside him. Ser Tygett Lannister took his place in the corridor, gesturing for the Lord Justice of Storm’s End to enter the solar.

“Lord Justice. Take a seat.”

He did, a look of apprehension darting across his long face. “You’ve called me, but…I know not why I’m here. This was a family affair, I think.”

“It was, Lord Justice, but I must speak to you anyway. How is your own family?”

He smiled. “They’re keeping well. Mors talks of nothing but his army service, Allyria is almost old enough for us to look for matches, and…well, there’s little to say of Beron yet.”

“Two namedays?”

“Indeed.”

“They grow up so fast at that age. And your…your niece?”

A look of caution crossed his face. “Lyarra visited us three moons’ turns ago. Lyanna was sent to work on a problem with the Stonehelm sluices. She’s doing well. She seems happy at the Crossing.”

“Good to hear.” Lyanna Stark, Eddard’s sister, had been deputy Warden of the New Cut, the great canal that the recently deceased King had had built from Ironman’s Bay to the Narrow sea, for eight years, after designing the gates between the Cut and the Green Fork. There were rumours about her and Tyta Frey, the Lady of the Twins, not that Joanna cared much. _Poor girl deserves some happiness._

“So. Yes, this is a family affair, but the coronation won’t be. The great lords of the realm will all be at King’s Landing.”

“It’s to be held there, Your Grace?”

“Indeed.” Jaehaerys had never reigned from the former capital city, preferring Dragonstone as his seat. “We’ve not the room here, you see.”

“Ah.” Stark stared at his hands, folded on the table. “And when you say the great lords…”

“Your brother will be among them, yes.”

“I see.” He fell silent.

“Have you kept abreast of the North?”

“No.” The Lord Justice’s face was grim. “Nor set foot there since my mother died, Your Grace.”

“A long time.”

“I fought with Brandon. He knocked me to the ground, actually.”

“Over Lyarra.”

“She’s _fourteen,_ Your Grace. And he sees her as a threat.”

“Is she not?”

“Lyanna’s behind me and my children, behind Benjen and his for that matter, in the line of succession.”

“Your children aren’t Targaryens.” Joanna sighed. She hadn’t meant to go down this rabbit warren. “In any event, my goodfather left her something in his will.”

“Land?”

“Aye, and a small keep, the one that used to belong to House Roote. It’s in the East, of course, so she doesn’t have right of pit and gallows, but it’s well situated, and Harroway is nearby.”

“Wasn’t that an army garrison?”

“It was Targaryen property, that we leased, and the Lord Marshal recommended that we close it. Harrenhal is close enough, the Iron Cloaks have twenty men in Harroway itself, and the cost was rather high.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe not yet,” she smiled. “The King wanted to give her Coldwater Castle. Aerys and I talked him out of it.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“In any event, we do need to speak of your brother.” Joanna slid the thin red volume across the table. “Lord Justice, this is a copy of the Winterfell ledger that I obtained.”

Taking it cautiously, Eddard opened the cover, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t…hmmm.” She could see him sink into the story that the numbers told almost immediately. Whatever some courtiers might say about him only having received his office as compensation for his sister’s ordeal, she knew the younger man to be among the Kingdom of the East’s best Justices. The Storm’s End march had weathered harsh storms with little loss of life, suppressed a grey plague outbreak, and grown in population by half again in his time there.

“What on earth?” He looked up at her. “This…I…”

“Your brother has spent, on average, nearly twice his yearly income in the last four years.” Her tone was grim.

“How?”

“Whores, wine, the best food and clothing. Mostly the first two. He owes thousands of gold dragons to Chataya’s, in King’s Landing. She’s petitioned us three times now for relief, and I can’t deny her any longer. The canal from Barrowton to the White Knife…Lord Justice, the entire realm could barely afford the New Cut, and I’m still shocked we’re as close as we are to opening the passage from the Blackwater Rush to the Mander. Your brother tried to build a canal in much harsher terrain, on his own. Except, that is, for the money he took from the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

Stark’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t blame him. Lords of the realm were forbidden to take loans from the Iron Bank, and merchants were only allowed a thousand dragons at most. Braavos had brought the Blackfyres to their knees at the end of the war, and her husband had never forgotten their power.

“That…that would be…”

“Treason, yes.”

He shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe this…”

“I scarcely can myself. In any event….Winterfell was quite rich in your father’s time, of course. Not quite like the Hightowers, or my family in the West, but rich nonetheless. Most of that’s been squandered. Lord Brandon has a smaller purse than the Graftons these days, and barely more than the Manderlys. Of course their is shrinking, because he’s doubled the port fees at White Harbour. Northern grain brandy, that really excellent salmon that the Braavosi sealords love…it’s all being carted to Eastgate and shipped out from there. The Freys have made a great deal of coin, of course, and Lord Manderly is livid.”

Eddard groaned aloud.“I can’t believe this.”

“So you’ve said, and I believe you. What we need to understand now, is what comes next, Lord Justice. My husband intends to have an audience with your brother once he’s arrived in King’s Landing. This can’t be allowed to continue. The debts he owes…it would take seven years to pay them off if all went well. More likely fifteen or even twenty. I doubt your brother can have the discipline to put half of his taxes towards debt payment for that long.”

“If he drinks as much as you say, he may not even live that long,” Stark said gloomily.

“True. So, here are the choices we have, Lord Stark. Forcing your brother to agree to a debt payment plan, which I doubt will work. The Crown taking on your house’s debts. Frankly, the only thing that the Starks of Winterfell have that would be worth that much, is the castle itself, and I don’t think the North would take that kindly. Third, we appoint a regent or some such person to sort the mess out.”

“You can’t be thinking of me.”

“I am. Need I remind you that you’re at my husband’s service, Lord Justice? You’ve been at Storm’s End a long time, and I dislike the idea of uprooting your family, but most of the Crown’s Justices have served at six or seven different posts by the time they’re your age.”

“I don’t mind that,” Eddard said quietly, his grey eyes growing more and more intense. “The problem, Your Grace, is that my brother absolutely hates me.”

“I understand that, but…the people of the North don’t hate you, Lord Justice. Lord Manderly specifically asked for _you_ to be put in charge of sorting out this mess. So did Willem Dustin.” She crossed her arms. “I can’t choose a southerner to take this post, or I’d send Matarys to do it. Half the great lords of the north support your brother. Our choices are between you, Lady Lyanna and your brother Benjen, who has made an excellent name for himself in the Royal Army, but has no experience with ledgers and bookkeeping. Lyanna can’t go without her daughter, won’t go, and a lot of people in the North want that girl dead in the ground. That leaves you, Lord Justice.”

Eddard nodded slowly. “I…I understand.”

“Good. I’ll have His Grace speak to you of this matter in the morning. Nothing is confirmed untilwe’ve spoken with Lord Brandon himself, of course.”

“What of the treason charge?”

She shook her head slowly. “This was a subject of…debate between all of us yesterday.” Aerys and Daeron had wanted Lord Stark to go to the Wall, while she, Elaena and Matarys had argued against it. The King, in one of his last lucid moments, had come down on her side. _Not that I’m sharing all that with Eddard._ “We can’t risk destabilising the North over this. Even weakened, your brother is still one of the most powerful lords in the realm, and our house isn’t trusted above the Neck, for all that my husband prays before a heart tree.”

“So he walks away?”

She nodded slowly. “Not freely, but…the risk is too high, I’m afraid.”

+++

“What did he say?”

Aerys had come to bed late, slipping his arms round her.

“He’ll do it,” she breathed, feeling his greying beard on the back of her neck. “Very dutiful, our Lord Justice.”

“Thankfully.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m not ready, Jo.”

“Yes, you are.” She sighed. “You’ve been Hand since before El and Mats were born.”

“This is different,” he muttered. “Gods…I always had Father to consult with, when he was Hand.”

“And now you have me, and Val.”

“He isn’t going to leave Summerhall.”

She twisted around to look him in the face. “Pardon?”

“He refused the Hand’s pin, Jo.”

“He has a duty—“

“It’s all right. Mats will take it up. Daer refused before I even asked him.”

“I was…I was hoping he’d be closer to us, now.” There was a hitch in her voice.

“Mats will be, and the girls. Tysha said she’ll be very happy to be here a while.”

“Good.”

They lay there in silence for a moment, before he spoke again.

“I…I got a raven, just before I came in. From Castle Black.”

She tensed. “Is it…”

“They named him Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Not so loud in my ear, love.”

“I…” she felt her fists clenching. “After all that he did to the realm, they _honour_ him?”

“He’s distinguished himself at the Wall, Lord Jeor tells me. But yes. The Starks are…furious.”

“So am I.” An image flashed across her eyes: Daeron in a bed in Summerhall, bandages wrapped around the bloody end of his arm. “He almost killed our _son,_ Aerys.”

“He’s paid the price, and the Watch chooses its own commanders.” He sighed heavily. “I could punish them by withholding supplies, but to what end? Rapers and murderers have been named commanders, even Lords Commander.”

“I…yes.” She could feel the anger draining from her slowly. “It’s just…”

“I know, love. I was there too.”

She chuckled a bit.

“What?”

“Can you imagine if Tywin’s son had lost his hand?”

“Oh, gods. He’dve hired a Faceless Man already.” She felt his laughter vibrate through her back. “You…do you miss him still?”

“I loved him, but…we’ve had so many more years together.”

_I just hope that we have many more._


	2. Daeron I

_After wresting control of the Blackfyres' wyverns, created with unknown blood magic in Essos, away from them, the Targareyns regained control of the skies in the years following the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion. Prince Aerys was the first to master a wyvern, seizing Eddraxes, the brother of Aemon Blackfyre's mount, for his own. Eddraxes mated with a wild wyvern out of Sothoryos in later years, and was the father of all wyverns flown in Westeros, down to the modern age. Try though they might, the Targaryens could never figure out the Blackfyres' secret. However, it rapidly became apparent that the Blackfyre wyverns had what we might call a dominant gene: however fierce or violent the one parent might be, wyverns whose other parent had Eddraxes' blood could be tamed to be flown by those of even distant Valyrian descent._

_Ridden wyverns were most often used, strange though it might sound, to carry letters and parcels across the length of the Kingdom of the East, especially in the early days. That said, every rider was trained in firing a crossbow from wyvernback, and dropping wildfire and oil pots onto enemies. Princes Daeron and Valarr Targaryen destroyed almost fifty slaving ships bound for the lands beyond the Wall as boys._

_While dragons could live for centuries, wyverns had perhaps forty years if they were lucky, meaning that one rider could have multiple wyverns in their life._

_—From Archmaester Yohn’s_ Unquiet Ghosts: The Closing Years of the Chaotic 3rd Century, _Weirbough Press_

He circled the towers of the Red Keep a few times, smiling as he saw the servants point and wave, and then brought Jaeraxes down in the courtyard.

 _I was the last one here, clearly._ The Targaryens had left Dragonstone shortly after dawn, launching into the rosy sky as a cold wind swept in from the Narrow Sea. It would’ve taken nearly a full day’s sailing, and Grandfather was far from a patient man.

 _I need to speak to Mother about…well, this._ Jaeraxes was a patient wyvern, but lacked the speed and ferocity needed for battle, or the energy for long flights across the Kingdom of the East. Daeron had ridden him when he learned to fly as a boy— _just like Uncle Mats did, and Mother_ —but hadn’t found his own mount before his incognito enlistment in the Iron Cloaks. _Would’ve made me stand out, having a great big wyvern walking around after me._

He scratched the green beast behind the ears after dismounting. _Gods, he’s getting old._ Jaeraxes was the last of Eddraxes’ hatchlings, one of the last ones that his great-grandmother had trained herself.

“Fly well?”

He looked up to see his uncle striding towards him. Daeron the Elder had his littlest daughter, Helaena, in his arms. His close-cropped white hair had grit and salt in it.

“Did you crash?”

“Eh?” Daeron shifted Helaena onto his left arm and reached up with his remaining hand.  
“Oh, no. I raced your mother the last half-league, and she landed right before me. Kicked up half the bloody tiltyard, she did, as always. _Heh.”_ His voice was raspy as ever.“How’s your fearsome steed?”

“Old and lazy. Aren’t you, boy? Yes, you are.” Jaeraxes snorted at him.“I need to find a quicker one.”

“Aye, don’t wear Jaer out. I want him for this little one to learn on.” He tapped a giggling Helaena on the nose. “I like Morningstar well enough, but…she’s bad-tempered these days.”

“The injury still giving her pain?”

“I think so, but I don’t know.” He sighed heavily. “It’s been..what, twelve years?”

“Fourteen. Lyarra Stark’s fourteenth nameday was recent. Maybe Morning’s just grown old.”

“So it was. Gods, I haven’t seen either of them in years.”

“Will we soon?”

His uncle tensed. “Maybe.”

“Daddy!”

Looking up, Daeron saw little Joanna, Daeron the Elder’s middle daughter, running towards them. _Well, she’s eleven now, not so little anymore._ She hadn’t changed from her flying suit yet.

“Did you put Belaxes in the stable?” his uncle said sternly.

“Auntie El wanted to see something with his saddle, she took him. Hi, Daer!”

He knelt down for his cousin to hug him, “Hello, little one. You flew alone?”

“Bel’s big enough to carry me now. Did you?”

“I took this slowpoke here.” He tapped Jaer on the knee.

She wrinkled her nose. “He’s so old!”

“Aye, but I don’t have one of my own, Jo. I was in the Iron Cloaks for a long time.”

“Maybe Auntie El will give you Aegrax, then.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Who?”

“He’s one of the hatchlings, he’s just big enough to be ridden now. Auntie El said she had a lot of trouble mounting him, he threw her off!”

“Did he now?” Mother hadn’t told him about that.

“Maybe you’ll want a quieter one to get back into it,” his uncle suggested. “Jo, can you watch Hel for a little while? I’m going to speak with your cousin.”

“Can we take Jaer to the stable for you, Daer? Please?”

Daeron looked at his uncle, who shook his head. “Just hold him here, Jo. Daeron might need him in a moment.”

As Jo took Helaena in her arm and Jaeraxes’ reins in her hand, the two men walked towards the edge of the courtyard.

“You need to keep your eyes wide open, boy.”

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

Daeron the Elder sighed heavily. “It’ll be all right for now, because it’s Father succeeding, but…there are too many heirs floating around, Daer, and Grandfather’s death brings us closer to crisis.”

“What do you mean?” Daeron tipped his head to one side. “It’s Uncle Valarr after Grandfather, then Aegon, then his children.”

“Aegon can’t succeed.”

“Mind the walls,” Daeron said quietly. “There are a lot of ears in this place.”

“Boy, his military service was a disgrace. They expelled him from the Harrenhal garrison for going after some burgher’s daughter in Harrenton. He was incognito like you were, but if it were known he was a prince…”

“Really?”

“Really. And he got a lot of demerits for drunk conduct the next place he ended up, by Newbarrel Town. Wasn’t incognito then.”

Daeron shook his head slowly. He knew that Aegon, Valarr’s only son, wasn’t a great soldier, but this was new to him.

“Meanwhile, you were a sarjent in the Iron Cloaks, a good one at that. People will see you as a chance to get rid of him.”

“Like you?”

“My daughter should be Father’s heir.” Daeron didn’t hesitate. “Jaehaerea. She was born for it, Daer, but he’ll never choose a black-skinned girl over Valarr’s drunkard son.”

“Lower your voice.”

“Forgive me.” Daeron the Elder didn’t sound at all sorry. “Do you want it?”

“What, the throne?”

“Aye.”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Honest answer. If you’re not sure, be careful about people who start wanting to be your friend now all of a sudden. Sarjent Silas Baker didn’t have the King’s ear, potentially. You might.”

They turned back.

“Ah, I was almost forgetting. Your mother said for me to send you to the dragonpit if I should run into you, that’s why I told the girls to keep your ferocious steed out.”

+++

“Down! Dow—oh, Daer! Didn’t see you.”

His mother turned from the wyvern hatchling, which had just tried to snap at her fingers, to wave at him. As usual, Elaena Targaryen was clad in heavy wyvern trainer’s leathers, with a black crop in her hand, with her gold-white hair cut just above her neck. Daeron could remember her scolding men in Harroway for using them on horses, but a wyvern’s thick skin meant that a crop felt like a firm tap.

“Who’s this one, then?”

“Baleraxes, and he doesn’t have the best manners yet.”

“Uncle Daeron said that one threw you off?”

“What, Aegrax? That was my fault, he wasn’t ready yet.” She set the crop down and drank from her flask. “If they’re too little and they feel like they’re being crushed with your weight, they buck.”

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes. How are you? We just burned Grandfather this morning.”

“Well as I can be.” He hadn’t seen the king all that often in his life; born in Harroway, he’d been about to join the Iron Cloaks when his mother moved back to the Red Keep. “How’s your father?”

“Worried, I think. He’ll be fine.”

“And your aunt?”

She sighed heavily— _she sounded like Grandmother there—_ peeling off her gloves. “She was never able to forgive your grandfather, nor your great-grandfather. I don’t think they spoke about…all that once. But now she’ll have to confront it.”

“Why?”

“Lyanna Stark’s coming to the coronation.”

He felt his jaw drop. “She _what?_ ”

“Lady Frey has to be here, and …well, they haven’t seen each other in a long time. They’ll travel back up to the Crossing afterwards.”

“But…her brother…”

“He’ll be there too, yes. And her daughter.”

“Maiden’s c—“

“I’ll use the crop on _you_ if you speak like that,” she said sharply. Behind her, Baleraxes hissed like a giant cat.

“Why would she bring her daughter _here,_ when the Hightowers—“

“Because she hasn’t met most of her family, Daer. Your uncle’s always been welcome at the Crossing, for sure, and they visited us when you were very little, but Lyarra’s never set eyes on my parents, or Valarr’s family, or Mats. And the Hightowers…wouldn’t dare try anything under Father’s nose. He told them that Lyarra was family, and that they crossed the dragon at their own peril.”

“That can’t have helped with Aunt Rhaella,” Daeron muttered.

“Doubt it. Why was Old Daeron speaking with you, then?”

“He’s…not happy about my cousin.”

“Aegon?” She groaned. “Again with this. Daer…your uncles don’t get along, you know that, and it means that Old Daeron sees the worst in everything Valarr does.”

“Why don’t they?”

“I…I’ll tell you when you’re older. Really. It’s not the time right now. We need to get going; they’re laying Grandfather to rest under the Sept an hour past midday, and I need to get the wyvern out of my hair.” She coaxed Baleraxes back into one of the cells along the side of the pit. Looking over her shoulder, Daeron could see that the others were empty.

“There aren’t other hatchlings here?”

“His mother only laid the one egg this time around, and I keep the yearlings on the other side of the pit. Fed them already.” The two of them began to walk towards where Jaeraxes and Elaena’s own wyvern, red-scaled Aerea, were sniffing each other.

“Who—“

“Morningstar, actually. Her first in a long time, probably the last.”

“Uncle Daeron said she’s still got a lot of pain—“

“Yes.” His mother’s face darkened. “I could kill my cousin, you know.”

He nodded.

“I hatched Quicksilver and Morningstar myself, broke them to saddle, gave them to their riders with my own hands, and my cousin turned them on one another, made sister kill brother.” Her purple eyes were furious. “I’d fly up there and drench him in wildfire if I could, believe me.”

He felt shudder go up his spine as he adjusted Jaeraxes’ saddle. “I believe you.”

“We’ll talk about a swifter mount for you, Daer. Aegrax is ready for a rider now, I think, or one of his clutch mates. That throwing thing was half a year ago, I’m surprised your uncle remembered it at all.”

“What, you think this one’s too slow?”

“He wasn’t young when I learned to ride on him, Daer, and that’s a while already.”

They went their separate ways upon returning to the Red Keep, with Daeron finding his way to the guest chamber he usually took when visiting. _Am I to live here now, then?_ He’d had his own rooms off Bridgegate Lane in Harroway, and knew he’d find it hard to adjust to the bigger castle again.

One of the servants had laid out his uniform—after serving a full term in the Iron Cloaks, he was eligible to wear the black leather and purple dress armour, with a closed-fist pin signalling that he’d retired. _Glad they didn’t put out some fancy fucking doublet instead. I’ve no patience for looking like a lordling today. I_ earned _this armour._

“You look good.”

Stepping out, he almost ran into his aunt. Tysha Glassmith Targaryen had a twin in each arm, and Daeron reached out to take one of them— _Jeyne?—_ into his arms.

“Ah, thanks, but mind she don’t spit up on your nice armour.”

“It’s Iron Cloak armour, it’s seen worse.” They began walking in the direction of the courtyard. “Where’s Uncle Matarys?”

“He had to go ahead with yer grandfather.” Tysha’s family had migrated from the westerlands to Newbarrel Town when she was a child, making their fortune in the glassblowing trade, but she still sounded a lot like the Nunn’s Deep and Leffordmarch men he’d met in Harroway. “Hand things.”

“He’s to be Hand?” Daeron’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ach, forget that I’m after saying that. But yes. I’m proud o’ him, a course.”

“He’ll do well.” People often underestimated Matarys because of his stature, but the man was sharp as Daeron’s paternal grandfather’s skinning knives. “Valarr—“

“Dont know, didn’t feel much like askin’.”

“Ah.”

The family had already gathered in the courtyard, their wyverns cooing and hissing at one another. Matarys broke off his discussion with Aerys— _the king, crowned or not—_ and reached out to take Jeyne from Daeron. “Ah, thank you, now.”

“Of course. You’re keeping well?”

“Well as can be.” Mats looked over his shoulder, to where Queen Shaena was speaking with her daughter and the Hightower grandchildren. “Matters are a…little tense here, I’m afraid.”

“Ah.” Daeron didn’t have time to say much more before it was time for them to leave.

Grandfather went first, swinging himself up onto Duncrion, a massive wyvern, with the jar of Great-grandfather’s ashes tied to his hip. Daeron pulled Jaeraxes away from Morningstar, who had just snapped at his mother’s wyvern, and sighed in relief when he took off without need of a crop, falling in behind Uncle Valarr and Uncle Daeron. Smiling, he noticed that Jo’s Belaxes, a young wyvern whose scales hadn’t fully reached their adult colour, was trying to keep up with Morningstar.

Beneath, he could see crowds lining the streets. King’s Landing hadn’t grown all that much in the years since the war, he knew that—people preferred to move to the cities and market towns closer to their own homes—but it was a great deal cleaner these days, and still the capital of the realm. Cheers echoed up from the streets, faintly, as they swooped downwards towards the Sept of Baelor. _See our power._

He landed just as his grandfather entered the Sept, the remains of the late King still in his arms. Sighing inwardly, he realised that there was a large gap between the Targaryen and Hightower members of the family, except for Valarr, Princess Elia and their children, who were trying to bridge the gap.

 _So that’s Aegon._ The heir to the heir to the Iron Throne was slightly older than Daeron, with his father’s yellowish hair, his mother’s dark eyebrows, and a pleasant expression on his face. _He doesn’t look like a drunkard, at least not now._

“Your Grace?”

Turning, he saw a thin man in a septon’s robes approaching him.

“Can I help you, Septon?”

“Ah, yes. I was looking for Lord Commander Selmy, actually. He was meant to escort His Holiness into the Sept for the ceremony?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Daeron replied honestly.

“Well…” the septon pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could stand in for him, perhaps? The only Kingsguard I can see here, my son, are those protecting your grandfather and uncle.”

“If it’s no trouble, certainly.” Daeron handed the reins for Jaeraxes off to a squire. “Mother?”

She was occupied speaking to a lord— _isn’t that one of the Blackwoods?—_ but turned. “Yes?”

“I was asked to help escort the High Septon in, I’ll join you right afterwards.”

“Oh, very well, good luck.” She turned back to the lord as Daeron followed the septon into the building.

“Is he able to walk well, should I take his arm…?”

“Taking his arm would help, your Grace, but the Father has blessed him with a good deal of strength still.”

They entered an antechamber, where two younger septons were speaking in hushed tones with an older man in simple white robes.

“We found hi—we found someone to take Ser Selmy’s place, Your Holiness,” the septon remarked.

The High Septon looked up, his face beaming as he saw Daeron.

“Ah, Prince Daeron, thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, although I fear I don’t know the timing.”

“I do, so we shall manage well enough, my son.” The older man gestured for him to take a seat. “You’ve but recently finished your time in the Cloaks, I see.”

“How—oh, yes.” He’d forgotten the chest pin. “Indeed. They’re short on wyvern riders at the moment, so it was thought best that I take that position instead.”

“I see, I see. You know, I believe that we had a mutual friend, actually.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Archsepton Merritt, of the Ashfield Sept in Harroway, who anointed you at your birth. He was a good friend of mine.”

“I remember the funeral, yes.” It had been a sad day. Merritt had been a good man, and the streets of Harroway had been packed with silent mourners.

“Too many there’ve been, for good men. Your father, your grandfather…all gone before their time. Good godly men, they were, in thought and deed and generosity.”

“I’m fortunate to have their example,” Daeron answered honestly.

“Indeed. A good influence on the royal family, your father was. I know that not all are so close to the Seven Who Are One.”

“We aren’t all followers of the Faith, true.”

The High Septon chuckled. “Oh, I don’t mean to speak ill, my son. Your uncle Daeron’s lady wife Bellaerys, your grandfather—good people, though they pray to different gods than mine. But some of your relatives have been a little—licentious, of course.”

A young septa poked her head in. “Your High Holiness, it’s time.”

“Ah, yes. Come, my son.”

Taking the High Septon’s arm, Daeron found himself following the older man’s lead through the narrow corridors, until they’d reached the very back of the Sept. Looking in, he could see a massive crowd: most of them lords or ladies, or burghers from the Kingdom of the East come to say goodbye to the king who’d given them their town charters.

_“Presenting His High Holiness, the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven.”_

As they walked down the aisle, he could see people turning their necks to take a look at them. His grandfather was standing besides the jar of ashes, along with his grandmother and great-grandmother. As they passed into the front rows, Daeron noticed a familiar face to his right.

Aegon was glaring at him with pure hate.

_Interesting._

The High Septon reached the dais, where Daeron helped him up. As he walked back towards his seat, alongside his mother, he snuck a glimpse at his grandparents. Aerys was smiling, but his grandmother looked…disconcerted.

He noticed that his great-grandmother was walking beside him just in time to hear her as she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Daeron, my sweet...you looked the very picture of Aerys just now.”

As he sat in the front row, listening to the High Septon speak of his great-grandfather’s long life, his achievements, his devotion, the better state in which he’d left Westeros, Daeron wondered if that had been His High Holiness’ idea all along.


	3. Joanna II

_From the time of the Smith’s Day Proclamation, in which then-Prince Jaehaerys declared the lands of rebel lords forfeit, and pledged to distribute them to the families of those who fought the Blackfyres, the Faith of the Seven was divided. The Most Devout, many of whom had fled Oldtown to avoid the Hightowers, preached that the Targaryens were trying to overturn the natural order of things, as did many wandering and village septons in the Vale and Stormlands._

_At the same time, another camp emerged, at first in Oldtown, arguing that poverty and deprivation, and above all the slavery practiced by the Blackfyres’ Essosi allies, were the greatest sins in the eyes of the Seven. It was in the riverlands and crownlands that this party, whom we now call the New Sept, gained its greatest strength. Septons and septas stirred the peasant revolts that bogged down the Blackfyre army, preventing it from reaching King’s Landing in time to capture the royal family. After the war, the New Sept was rewarded handsomely, with members named to the new ranks of the Most Devout. The system of archseptons was created at this time as well, and given the responsibility for the schooling and teaching of youth in the Kingdom of the East—for which they were given a share of the royal taxes. It could truthfully be said that not even Baelor the Blessed had given the Faith such strength._

_Moreover, Prince Aerys was, if not a man of the Faith, a devout one nevertheless, who prayed before a heart tree daily, and was known for his generosity and sense of justice. Septa Jeyne of Fairmarket summed up the feelings of many Faithful when she wrote that “The White Dragon is more a man of the Faith, kneeling before his heart tree, than Aegon IV was when attending a sept.” His wife and most of his children attended services regularly, reassuring the faithful that in the long run, the kings and queens of Westeros would be sept-goers._

_The Old Sept did not disappear with the end of the war. While Springport and Gulltown embraced the new faith, men and women of the Old Sept remained predominant in the Upper Vale, the Snakewood and Eyriemarch, as well as Fossowaymarch in the former Reach. However, the Trident, Greenmarch, Redmarch and the Lower Vale were firmly New Septist._

Joanna had scarcely believed her eyes.

Walking back into the Red Keep, she scanned the small knot of her family for Daer. _How did that_ happen? She _knew_ that Barristan Selmy had been meant to escort His Holiness to the dais, and had been shocked to see her grandson at the man’s side instead.

 _Gods…the Dowager Queen had been right._ Daeron the Younger had looked the very image of her husband at that moment, if quite a bit thinner. Most of the sept wouldn’t have noticed it, she was sure, but the other Targaryens had. _Aegon and Val certainly did._

“When were you going to tell us about that little stunt?”

Turning, she saw her goddaughter standing beside her. Elia Martell’s lips were tight with irritation.

“Stunt?”

“Having Daeron escort the septon. Aegon could’ve done it, couldn’t he?“

“That wasn’t planned for. It should've been Ser Selmy, last anyone told me.”

“Then you should have a word with your daughter.” The Dornishwoman shook her head angrily and walked away.

 _How on earth…_ She caught a glimpse of Daeron and strode forward, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Grandmother! How—“

“With me.” She pulled him into an alcove off the entrance hall, beckoning for Tygett to follow them. “What was that?”

“What?”

She wanted to slap her own forehead with exasperation. “You escorting His Holiness. Who told you to do that?”

“One of the septons, Grandmother. There…there was something off about that, wasn’t there? Aegon looked furious.”

“And well he might be. You upstaged him.”

“I…” Daeron sighed heavily. “I’m not used to court games anymore. Silas Baker isn’t, I should say.I’m sorry, but…where _was_ Ser Barristan?”

“Supposed to be there,” Tygett rumbled. “And they could’ve asked _me_ if not. No one would’ve found it odd for a Kingsguard to escort His Holiness into the sept.”

“Most people won’t find it strange that Daeron did, truth be told,” Joanna muttered. “Just Elia.”

“I’ll apologise to them, if I need to.”

“You may have to, yes, for all that they’ll believe you.”

“I could just take the white cloak, that might help.”

She stared at him for a moment, before noticing the light twinkling in his purple eyes, and burst out laughing. “Oh, you almost had me there.”

“Aye.” He grinned ruefully. “Uncle Daeron warned me that people would try this. Guess I should've listened.”

“Yes. You should’ve. Go find Aegon and try to make amends. I’ll speak to him as well.”

Once Daeron had left, Joanna turned to her left. “Was he telling the truth?”

“Yes.”

The woman who stepped out of the back of the alcove looked like a corpse newly woken up, her skin the colour of new milk. Alysanne Banefort was the quietest woman that Joanna knew, her feet always clad in deerskin slippers under her long black dress. If there hadn’t been dozens of witnesses to confirm it, she would have a difficult time believing that the Mistress of Whispers was Branda Stark Banefort’s daughter, much less a relative of the honourable Eddard Stark.

“And Ser Barristan?”

“He woke up quite sick this morning, Your Grace. A servant told him that Ser Tygett could take his place, and no one thought amore of it.”

“What did he eat last night?” Joanna felt her skin prickle. Barristan Selmy had been on Dragonstone, not here at the Red Keep.

“He took the night shift, Your Grace, and ate from the kitchen. A lamprey pie that the servants had made for themselves. No one else in your home fell ill, yesterday nor today.”

“Find the servant.”

“It shall be done.” She bowed slightly and vanished back into the shadows.

“She makes me nervous,” Tygett grumbled as they walked towards the Great Hall.

“Me too, in truth, but I trust the Baneforts well enough.”

“They’re a bit creepy, Jo. How did she know that business about the servants on Dragonstone? She’s been here the entire damn time!”

“With Alysanne, I find it’s best not to ask. And at least she’s on our side.”

“As far as we know.”

+++

The day seemed to pass in a blur of preparations for the coronation, and the sun was already starting to go down when she found Mats, sitting with his daughters under the heart tree.

“All’s well?”

“Indeed.” Her youngest son smiled as he watched Jeyne playing with a fallen leaf. “Been running around all day.”

“Have the Starks arrived yet?”

“Lord Justice Eddard’s family is on their way, and should be here in the morning. They took an overnight schooner out of Storm’s End. Lord Brandon—not that I know of.”

“The coronation’s _tomorrow,_ how can he—“

“If I could understand that man—well, no. I do. He’s a drunk, and drunks aren’t known for their punctuality. If he doesn’t arrive, he doesn’t arrive. With what we’re proposing be done…what he does may be disrespectful, but it won’t go unpunished.”

“Can we trust the North to obey Lord Justice Eddard?”

Mats was silent for a moment. “I don’t really know, Mother. The Manderlys will, and the Dustins. The Karstarks probably won’t, and that will be a very, very large problem. Rickard Karstark’s a hero in the North, and with good reason, and Greycliff Harbour is a large and fairly rich city. The Umbers and Boltons are also close to Lord Brandon, and they’ve both grown stronger with the passage of time. Especially the Umbers. This was a good year for wool, and theirs is even better than the Freys’.”

“Would you station a division of the Royal Army in the North, if you were your father?”

“No.” His answer was quick. “That’s asking for trouble. I’m certain that the Manderlys would happily host them if we paid for their lodging, but the other houses will take it very, very poorly. I want Father to increase the garrison at Breakwater Keep, and move maybe half a dozen more brigantines up there. The Sistermen won’t care one way or the other, and that given us a launching point in the worst case scenario.”

“After all that Rickard Stark did for your father…I can scarcely believe it’s come to this, you know.”

Mats was silent for a moment. “Nor I. For what it’s worth, I doubt that many houses would actually take up arms against Eddard Stark. If you’d appointed anyone else as regent, that would be a problem.”

“Indeed.”

“When are you going to speak with him, Mother?”

“After the ceremony if he’s here. If not, the moment he arrives. I don’t suppose his ship could've—“

“No, the weather’s fair off the Vale at the moment. Bellaerys told Daeron to tell me that she thinks the cod catch in Springport and Braavos both will be up by a fifth this year, they’ve been able to stay out there longer. As long as they don’t fish it all out. But no, if Brandon Stark isn’t here, it's his own fault, I’m sure of that.”

“Very well.” Joanna stood up, smoothing off her skirts. “My old bones aren’t too happy about sitting on the ground, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve a meeting with Lady Frey, so I must go as well.” Mats scooped Jeyne into his arms as Joanna picked up her sister. _He won’t be able to hold them for very long,_ she thought sadly. Her son was a capable wyvern rider, with strong arms, but this was one of the times when his height held him back.

“What about?”

“Widening the Green Fork. It’s turning into a chokepoint for river traffic these days. One of the freemen of Fairmarket will be there as well.”

Joanna frowned. “Isn’t that Lady Frey’s responsibility?”

“It’s Crown land, not hers, but the jam is causing problems upstream.”

She nodded absentmindedly as they entered the Tower of the Hand, where Mats would be staying. _For a long time, probably. He likes King’s Landing much more than his father ever did._

After handing the twins to a nursemaid, mother and son entered the Hand’s solar to find their guests waiting already. Lady Tyta Frey was thin-faced, like most of her house, but had the height and piercing eyes of her grandmother’s family, the exiled Royces of Runestone.

The man beside her had a broad face, with pale blue eyes, a heavy brow and dusty brown hair. Both were clad in heavy suits of Green Fork wool.

“My lady, and…?”

“Jasper Painter, yer grace. Of Fairmarket.” The man bowed deeply. “I was chosen to come here to speak with the Crown.”

“Well met, Goodman Painter.” She took a seat alongside Mats, who apologised for their lateness.

“Oh, no, we were early,” Lady Frey replied. “My condolences for your goodfather and grandfather, Your Graces.”

“He will be missed.” She detected a slight quaver of emotion in Mats’ voice; he had been very close to Jaehaerys. “So. This problem with the river.”

“Yup. Four miles north of Fairmarket.” Painter had brought a map, which he rolled out on the table; Joanna could see that it was of Greenmarch, stretching all the way to the edge of the Frey lands. “Hereabouts, Yer Grace, by the Shell Broad.” His finger, which was stained yellow and blue— _Painter by name…—_ tapped a point on the bank of the Green Fork. “A ford, it were, so narrow and fair shallow. ’Twas enough when yer royal husband’s grandfather were on the throne and our boats were smaller, but only one wherry at a time can get through now. Some git stuck, and that’ll be three hours’ work to get the spot open again.”

“When that happens,” Lady Frey added, “the digging and pulling weakens the banks. There’s a risk they’ll collapse and block the whole waterway.”

“I see.” Mats tapped his chin for a moment. “Why has this not been done with the Lord Justice’s purse?”

“The Lord Justice Manderly’s a good sort, Yer Grace, but we’d floods in Fairmarket a few years past, and the purse is nearabouts empty. Nobbut enough to keep the streets clean and the crownhouse open and all.”

“I can pay half, but widening a river costs a great deal,” Lady Frey concluded. “Six thousand dragons from the Crown are what we need to get it widened out and deepened in a moon’s turn.”

“What happens if we don’t pay?” Mats asked, arching an eyebrow.

The Lady of the Crossing opened her hands wide. “A sennight past, there was a line of wherries four and a half hours long to get through the ford, on either side. That could become a daily occurrence soon, and the line…the line could stretch past Fairmarket itself.”

“Well, for that price, avoiding that is quite worthwhile.” Mats smiled benevolently. “I’ll have the funds transferred to Lord Justice Manderly’s purse on the morrow, my lady, Goodman Painter.”

Leaving her son to his work, the former princess of Dragonstone escorted the two visitors down the tower. Painter, who’d taken lodging in the city, bowed deeply as he left, leaving Tyta Frey alone with Joanna.

“I haven’t been here in years,” the younger woman said as they strolled down the corridor, in the direction of Maegor’s Holdfast. The Targaryens would dine as a family tonight, before hosting a feast for the visiting Lords and Ladies following Aerys’ coronation. “Not much changed, I must say.”

“This city doesn’t grow as fast as the riverlands,” Joanna smiled. “I’ve heard tell of people going to sleep on a farm, and waking up with a whole town grown about them.”

“That happened at Eastlock once, yes. Lyanna wasn’t too happy.”

“How is she faring?”

Lady Frey hesitated. “She has her good days, and bad ones, but many fewer bad than good, which has gotten better. I’ve missed her a great deal, Your Grace.”

 _I can imagine._ “He asked to come down here, actually. For the funeral. I deemed it unwise.”

“So would I.” She saw Tyta’s fist clenching. “I’m a reasonable woman, Your Grace, but…my kin have heard Lyanna wake screaming too often to show restraint if your nephew were to walk in here. I’ll be lucky if I can keep them away from the Hightowers.”

 _You’re not wrong about that._ The Freys had a poor reputation under Tyta’s grandfather, Walder Frey, but had fought and bled mightily for the Targaryens against House Blackfyre, nearly being wiped out in the process. Tyta and her younger sister Maegelle, the daughters of Ser Stevron Frey, had been the last living members of the house in the end. Maegelle had wed Gerion, Joanna’s cousin, and their five children, two of whom had children of their own, were Tyta’s heirs. _I wouldn’t want to cross any of them._

“I would suggest that you do so, my lady. The King is most unhappy with those who violate his hospitality.”

“I shall. Good night, Your Grace.”

“Until the morrow, Lady Frey.” She and Tygett turned to head towards the Holdfast.

“I’ve an answer for you.”

She jumped half out of her skin as Alysanne Banefort fell in beside her. “Gods be good!”

“Sorry.” The Mistress of Whispers’ tone was far from regretful. “You’d asked me about Mistress Jeyne Tanner?”

Joanna felt a pit form in her stomach. “And?”

“It’s true.”

She groaned aloud. “You cannot be serious.”

“Am I ever anything but?”

“Well…no.”

“Precisely. The boy is—“

“Boy?” _This keeps getting worse and worse._

“Yes, a boy of two namedays. His eyes are unmistakable."

“I’ll have to have words with my grandson.”

“You should. Until later, you Grace.”

“Until later.”

Upon reaching the Holdfast, Joanna strode purposefully towards the chambers where Valarr’s family had been placed, shaking off Elaena as she tried to ask a question.

“Val!”

Her son jumped as she pushed past a servant to enter the room. Aegon and Elia had been speaking with him, and they turned around quickly.

“Mother?”

“Do you remember what I told you on your fourteenth nameday?”

“Don’t mix wine and grain brandy?” Seeing the thunderous look on her face, he shook his head. “Sorry…it was…moon tea, wasn’t it?”

“And why didn’t you tell your son the same thing?”

“What’s this about?” Elia said quietly.

“I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or not, but you two are grandparents.”

“What do you—“

“Jeyne. Jeyne Tanner. Is the name familiar, Aegon? From the Mud Gate?”

“I…no.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“You’re calling my son a liar?”

“The problem, Elia, is that any _legitimate_ grandchild you have will now be threatened by—“

“My grandchild will be threatened, or yours will?” Elia leaned forward. “Daeron gets sent up to the dais looking like his grandfather come again, and you don’t think—“

“Why would you feel threatened by that?”

“Because the Faith’s trying to favour someone else!” Aegon snapped. Her grandson’s handsome face was flushed with fury. “Who do you think got Jeyne Tanner to claim it’s mine? She could’ve laid with half a hundred—“

“Be quiet.” Valarr broke his silence, shaking his head angrily.

“Father—“

“ _Quiet._ This was the height of foolishness, boy.” Her eldest son groaned. “Mother, what does the woman want?”

“Nothing yet. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“I can—“

“If you have time, teach your son to think through what follows his actions, Val.” Suddenly exhausted, she stood up and swept from the room.

+++

Dinner was almost unbearably awkward. Between Elia and Valarr periodically glaring at Elaena and Daeron, who was too busy talking with Daeron the Older’s little girls to notice, Joanna could’ve cut the tension with a knife. Aerys clearly sensed it too: rather than lingering after the meal was over, he excused himself, claiming a massive headache. Joanna followed soon after

“Do you mind telling me what in the Seven Hells that was all about?”

She looked up from removing her jewellery. “All what?”

“That little business with Valarr and Elaena clearly wanting to tear each other’s throats out. And yours as well, somehow.”

She recounted the events of the morning and last few hours to him.

“Great.” Aerys sat on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. “Just great.”

“We could—“

“I’ll have a word with the High Septon once I can find one blasted minute. And this business with Aegon…you know about the problem when he was in the army, no?”

“Yes, but…”

“He’s got bad judgment. I’m going to ask him to stay here after the coronation. If Valarr hasn’t taught him to rule by this time, then I’ll have to.”

He blew out the candles and rolled into bed once she’d finished changing.

“Well, this makes you a great-grandfather.”

“I was always a great grandfather.”

She elbowed him, and he laughed. “Sorry.”

“No you aren’t. How’s Rhaella?”

“Bitter as ever, and I feel like I’m back at Seagard after Hoster Tully died, with the tension between the Freys and Hightowers.”

She frowned. “I told Lady Frey to be mindful of that.”

“She’d best be. Her nephews nearly got in a fight with Garth Hightower in the sparring yard, and their men at arms aren’t too happy either. And Lyanna Stark isn’t yet here, think about that.”

“Nor her daughter.”

She felt him freeze. “ _Fuck,_ Jo, I forgot about that. Maybe they won’t make it tomorrow?”

“They probably will.”

 _Gods help us all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the coronation, and the feast afterwards.  
> I know this has mostly been court politics so far but...things are going DOWN next chapter.


	4. Daeron II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the archive warnings. That is all I'll say.

_While the Kingdom of the East grew apace throughout the late 3rd century, the other kingdoms of Westeros fell further and further behind. On the face of it, they had come out well. The Lannisters gained the territory around the Red Fork, Stony Sept and Old Oak;the Hightowers’ cadet branches were awarded the western Dornish Marches, and the Gift was returned to House Stark, excepting the northernmost third of Brandon’s Gift. Dorne’s tax burden was reduced. At first glance, it appeared that the Targaryens were weaker than ever. The new Kingdom of the East, comprised of the stormlands, riverlands and old crownlands, had been devastated by war._

_It was not to last. Unlike his predecessors, King Jaehaerys reinvested all the taxes taken from the East into water and sewer systems, crownhouses to provide care to small folk, the training of halfmaesters, and the building of enormous glass gardens. By 276, when the first shovel was turned on the New Cut, the East was the most populous region in Westeros—and the richest per head. Families like the Starks, Lannisters and Hightowers—the Targaryens’ staunchest allies during the war—remained trapped in the Age of Heroes, with feudal agriculture, small and unchartered towns, and regressive tax systems._

_Over time, the gap grew, as did fears that the Kingdom of the East would swallow up the rest of Westeros. Many second and third children of smallfolk left their home regions for the growing towns of the Trident, and many lords tried to prevent them from doing so—with little success._

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?”

Mats sighed gently as his and Daeron’s horse passed under the gate from the Red Keep into the city of King’s Landing. “Because you, my boy, have a great deal to learn about the subtle side of ruling—and yes, you need to know it. The whole family does, I’m afraid. Some of us are better than others.”

“And you’d be among the some?”

“But of course.”

It was a cool morning, the sun barely up, but the streets of King’s Landing were already busy.Shaken out of bed by his uncle barely ten minutes earlier, Daeron had simply grabbed his old Iron Cloak’s uniform, and no one would’ve thought him anything but a Cloak unless they saw the closed fist pin. Mats wore his customary black leather doublet, a two-headed dragon snarling at the centre. The only member of the Kingsguard joining them, Ser Endrew Crakehall, wore a brown cloak over his armour.

The Street of Silk was dead quiet at that hour, and Mats spurred his horse towards one of the larger brothels, swinging himself off with ease. For all his lack of height, the older Lannister moved gracefully and easily, especially on the small Snakewood horse that he usually rode. “Well, this is it.”

Daeron followed, his hand at his belt. He’d brought his old sap from his time in the Cloaks, a frightful weapon that could break a sword if swung right. “Why do you think he’s here?”

“Lady Banefort has her ways, Daeron. Found that out the hard way as a boy.”

“Let’s not be here too long,” Crakehall growled. “There’s too many foists hereabouts.”

“As you will, ser.” Mats rapped hard on the door. There was a moment’s wait before an older woman in a sturdy broadcloth dress opened it.

“What’re ye…wait, wait. Yer Grace?”

“Indeed.” Mats bowed a little. “I’ve crown business with the guest on your fourth floor?”

She blanched. “How’d ye—“

“Oh, word of mouth, you know.”

She eyed Daeron warily. “Why’ve ye an Iron Cloak with ye?”

“I’m giving my nephew a little lesson. He’s not in an arresting mood, I assure you. Too early for that. Now, about that guest of yours…”

“A’ course.” She sighed and led them in.

The building was all in brick, in the style that had predominated after the war, and had much better lighting than most buildings in the riverlands. _It’s much warmer here, too._ For all that Eddard Stark or his kin would call the lands watered by the Trident the south, it was frigid in winter, with heavy freezing fog lingering most evenings.

The fourth floor was one set of rooms, with a single man seated before them, trying desperately to stay awake.

“I require your master.”

The man jerked up, his eyes bleary. “Who…I…why in the seven hells is there a dwarf—“

“This is a prince of House Targaryen,” Daeron growled. “You will address him as His Grace, Ser…?”

“Jory, Jory Cassel.” The man groaned. “Forgive me, Your Grace. What time—“

“Seventh bells when I left the Red Keep. Is your master inside?”

“Yes, let me—“

“No, we can come in.”

“I don’t think…” Cassel’s voice trailed off as Daeron stepped forward, letting the frozen-iron look that he’d perfected as a Cloak settle into his eyes. The older man visibly gulped and stepped aside, opening the door.

The inside stank of stale wine. There were several rooms, the doors half closed, but Mats strode to the last, and largest one, shoving it open.

A girl shrieked, pulling a blanket around herself.

“Get. Out.” The man who’d been lying beside her pulled himself upright.

Daeron’s jaw almost dropped. He’d heard of Brandon Stark as a fearsome warrior, who’d broken the forces of the latest King beyond the Wall without calling for royal help, and taken the central tower of Lorath in the War Across the Waves. The man looking at them had the telltale broken veins and red nose of a heavy drinker, his long hair filthy and matted. He’d lost little muscle, Daeron could tell, but his bloodshot eyes reminded the former Iron Cloak of men he’d thrown into the Harroway drunk tank.

_This is the Lord of Winterfell?_

“Lord Stark.” Mats leaned against the doorjamb. “You arrive in King’s landing and make for the nearest brothel.”

“‘Who the fuck are you?”

“The Hand of the King,” Crakehall boomed. “Prince Matarys Targaryen.”

“Fuck me, my sons are taller than you.”

“At least try a dwarf _joke,_ Lord Stark. Yes, I’m rather short, although not as short as you’re drunk, I suspect.”

“Get me some wine,” Stark muttered to the girl. Wrapping a sheet around herself, she made her way to the table by the window.

“The warden of the North’s had enough, milady. Just some water,” Mats interjected.

She looked back, confused.

“Just get him water. If he has a problem with that—“ the Hand turned to face Lord Stark—“he can bring it up with me.

“Fine, only don’t talk so loudly—“

“NYYAARRCHGHGH!”

Only the pounding of footsteps saved Daeron from death. Turning, he saw a shirtless man charging through the door with a sword held high.

_What the—_

He ducked the man’s first wild swing, punching him hard in the gut and drawing his sap. The man fell on his arse, fingers scrabbling for his blade.

“Mark, _stop!_ ” Stark roared.

“Milord—“

“That’s the Hand of the King, you bloody fool! _Stop!_ ”

Freezing, the man held his hands out.

“Get up, and back out of the room.” Daeron’s tone was conversational, but his weapon was still extended. “Slowly. And tell whoever else is out there to leave us be.”

“You broke in!” the man—Mark—snarled. “I’m not leaving you alone with my lord.”

“‘ _Whomever shall bare sharpened steel to menace another, when he shall not have been provoked to defend life and limb, his or anothers, shall choose between five years’ labour or the loss of the hand which hath held said steel.’_ Criminal Code of the Kingdom of the East, chapter 4, paragraph six.” Daeron held Mark’s gaze until the other man looked away. “Now, we did come in here without warning, but that was still fairly stupid, my friend. There’ll be no trouble if you leave. If not…”

“Mark, _go._ ” Stark’s tone was unmistakable.

Growling, the other man backed out of the room, leaving his sword behind.

“That’s better. Now, Lord Stark.” Mats spread his hands. “We have much to discuss.”

“Why?” the Warden of the North growled. “Can’t a man have a night to himself in peace?”

“It’s really quite rude to travel into the capital without announcing yourself, or sending word of your lateness, Lord Stark.” Mats shook his head with an expression of mock sorrow on his face. “And yesterday…yesterday was my late, lamented grandfather’s funeral, with scarcely a northerner to be seen in the Sept of Baelor. After all that our two fathers did together in the war…”

“I don’t keep your southern gods.” Stark drank deeply from the goblet that the woman brought him, his hand sliding up her dress. “And I’ll be there for your father’s coronation, dwarf.”

“Call him dwarf one more time, and see what happens,” Crakehall snarled.

In one motion, Stark came to his feet, grabbing an enormous sword from beside the bed with one hand. “You mean this?”

Daeron spun the sap once, menacingly.

“Put that down, my lord, or you’ll be spending the coronation in the black cells.” Mats’ tone was curiously flat.

“I…damn and blast.” Stark set the blade down. “Promised Barbrey I wouldn’t get into trouble.”

“You already have, my lord. The Iron Bank?”

The man blanched. “What?”

The mock sorrow returned to Mats’ face. “Why, my lord, you don’t think we wouldn’t have noticed? Not to mention the debts owed to Chataya’s. My father’s her liege lord, now, and could seek satisfaction from you.”

“Over a whoremonger?”

“Over one of his subjects, Lord Stark, entitled to his protection. Plainly put, we cannot allow Winterfell to slide into this much debt. It’s a threat.”

“I can’t pay it all back yet,” Stark growled. “The canal will make it back, but it isnt—“

“The canal aside, you’ve been living beyond your means, as your ledgers clearly indicate.”

“You—-you’ve been spying on me!?”

“That’s neither here nor there. The problem, Lord Stark, is that your father kept Winterfell’s books balanced, and you don’t. The Crown has drawn up a debt repayment plan.”

“It’s my money.”

“Not anymore, it isn’t. It’s your debtors’ money, and there are a _lot_ of them, my lord.”

“I…fine.”

“Excellent.” Mats smiled. “I’ll meet you tomorrow in my solar to iron out the details, my lord. The Crown will be appointing a Lord Justice to oversee your compliance.”

“Who?”

“Why, your brother Eddard.”

Stark’s eyes widened, showing several broken blood vessels. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all, my lord. He’s well trusted by many Northerners.”

“He’s not a fucking Northerner. Left us when he was a child, he did.” Stark laughed hollowly. “He belongs to the west.”

“In any event, he’s a Lord Justice in my father’s service, and he’ll be in charge of seeing that Winterfell gets out of debt.”

Stark laughed again. “I suppose you’ll be having my sister running the place with him, then? And her mongrel daughter?”

“I—“

“I told her to get rid of it. So did Father.” Brandon stared at the wall. “We could’ve made her a match, but…she wanted to carry your cousin’s seed, after all of it.”

Daeron heard a pulse in his ears, and saw his vision turning red.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Mats answered diplomatically. “Lady Lyanna will not be returning to Winterfell, that I know of. Your brother will. Plan accordingly, and be on timer this afternoon, my lord.”

With that, they left. Daeron saw no sign of Mark, and Jory Cassel gave them a thin smile as they walked down the stairs.

Mats waited to speak until they were on horseback again.

“You should've killed Ryswell.”

“Pardon?”

“Ser Mark Ryswell, Brandon Stark’s good brother. The one who tried to open you from balls to brain?”

Daeron shook his head. “I didn’t have to kill him, so I didn’t, Uncle.”

Mats was quiet for a moment. “He bared steel to a member of the royal family.”

“He didn’t know who we were.”

“If he weren’t in Lord Stark’s retinue, would you have spared him?”

“Yes.”

His uncle looked at him, seemingly startled. “Really?”

“Really.”

The older man sighed as they turned onto Visenya’s Way, Ser Crakehall close behind. “That may have served you well in the Cloaks, but here—“

“Grandfather always said that Eldred Greyjoy got dragged into the Seagard War because he was afraid of appearing weak. I’m not going to change what I do so that people imagine me to be stronger than I am. I don’t need that.”

Mats sighed. “You may have a point there, boy. All the same…have an eye on the Starks when they finally make their way to the Keep.”

“They’re not going to…do anything stupid?”

“The Hightowers will be there, and from what my mother’s told me, the Freys are itching for a fight with them. At the same time, they don’t much like the Starks either. I’d sooner that the coronation feast didn’t turn into an all-out brawl.”

“Seen enough of those in my day.”

“That reminds me…kindly don’t bring that sap of yours to the coronation.”

Daeron blinked. “Many will have swords.”

“Aye, and swords are fancy, and noble. Saps are common, and vulgar. Don’t ask me why. If you’ve a sword to bring…  
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t, Uncle. Carry a weapon you don’t know how to use, it belongs to whomever sets upon you.”

Mats nodded, clearly unconvinced.

+++

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind, and Daeron almost found himself longing for the night patrols back in Harroway. His grandmother looked at him disapprovingly when he appeared in his Iron Cloak’s dress armour, but didn’t say anything; Elaena had told him that she’d had a fight with Aunt Elia last night. Daeron had tried to apologise to Aegon, only for his cousin to brush him off.

They rode on horseback to the sept this time. As before, he was beside Daeron the Elder, clad in the green and black of a Lord Justice, with Blackfyre at his hip. The Prince Regent of Springport’s daughters were in the wheelhouse that trundled along at the back, along with Tysha, Matarys and their twins. _Except for Jaehaerea._ His eldest cousin had supposedly set a course for King’s Landing, at the helm of the _Prince Duncan,_ but hadn’t made it yet.

“Good weather for it.”

“Aye.” They passed the rest of the ride in silence, waving occasionally at the crowds of small folk who had lined the streets.

The sept was surprisingly empty when they arrived, with only a few septons scurrying around, ensuring that all was ready. Daeron found a seat next to his mother, who was cooing over one of Mats’ daughters.

“Your uncle Raymun couldn’t make it, I’m afraid,” she said softly. “There was trouble I’m Harroway.”

He nodded quietly. Raymun Butcher, his father’s brother, was one of the wealthiest burghers in the city of Harroway, and one of the busiest as well.

 _Speaking of the Stranger…_ he heard shuffling feet, and turned to see the burghers of the Kingdom of the East begin to enter the sept. He recognised a few—Tom Glasswright of Maidenpool, Lem Darke of Harrenton, one of the Painters, from Fairmarket. They were dressed plainly, most in dark broadcloth, as was the custom among New Sept followers.

 _This is my family’s strength._ The burghers far outnumbered the realm’s great lords at this point, and not even the Lannisters and Hightowers could match their wealth.

They were followed by the lords of the realm.

The first in was Tytos Blackwood, still handsome in his early forties, followed by Jason Mallister, Tyta Frey and her landed knights— Frey of Westlock, Frey of Eastlock, Manderly of the Wooded Isle, Ironsmith of the New Foundry—dead-eyed Leon Corbray, and the remaining lords of the former Stormlands: Selmy, Tarth, Tudbury, Mertyns. An assortment of Crownlands lords were close behind: Daeron picked out a few sigils, but didn’t recognise any faces.

The Reach followed them: Great-Aunt Rhaella with Lord Leyton, their children, and their principal bannermen. _Cuy, Fossoway of Cider Hall, Tarly, Oakheart, Rowan, and…Redwyne. That’s Lord Redwyne._ The West had sent surprisingly few men: weak-chinned Lord Lancel, accompanied by Lords Crakehall and Westerling.

A slight gasp went up around the room when the last Westerman arrived. Jason Banefort, Lord of Nunn’s Deep and the Surf Shore, was finally losing the red in his hair. Branda Stark Banefort, his wife, had hair as dark as ever, even past her sixtieth year, and the same long face as her nephews. Their children and grandchildren were close behind. Edwyle and Beron Banefort, Lord Jason’s twin sons, born when their mother was nearly forty, sent a chill up Daeron’s spine. They’d been Iron Cloaks as well, and both had the looks of lean, hungry wolves.

There was a slight delay, and then the north.

Brandon Stark had cleaned himself up, clearly, and his thick beard shone. Mark Ryswell, a bruise evident on his face, was beside him, as were Cassel, a stout man in dull yellow and copper, and a tall man with a narrow, sour face. Daeron heard a hiss of breath from beside him.

“Uncle?”

“That’s Cregan Karstark,” the Hand said quietly, not taking his eyes off the entrance. A handful of Dornishmen and -women were entering, led by dark-eyed Oberyn Martell. “He was arrested the last time he was in King’s Landing, for beating a whore.”

Gasps rose throughout the room, and they both turned back to the entrance.

Eddard Stark had entered with House Dayne, a stunning woman with enormous dark eyes and wavy hair beside him. _The Lady Ashara._ Mors Stark, their son, had her looks set on Eddard’s long face, and his sister Allyria made Daeron’s own heart flutter just a bit.

But people had reacted not to them, but to the two people following the Starks of Storm’s End.

Lyanna Stark was just as Daeron the Elder had always described her: a curvy Northern beauty, with wild brown hair, and stunning grey eyes. Five halfmaester’s links encircled her wrist, and her hands were worn from work. _One of the best stewards in the Kingdom._

_But people only remember her for one thing._

Her daughter was clad in simple black leather. Lyarra Stark had her uncle’s long face and solemn grey eyes, her hair as curly as her mother’s. But knowing what to look for, Daeron could see her father—and her grandmother—in her nose and lips. _She’s stunning as well._

 _She’s certainly stunned the room._ All the eyes in the room were on the girl whose conception had nearly torn the realm apart.

Rhaella made as if to rise, only for Leyton Hightower to hold her back, whispering in her ear. Brandon Stark’s face was thunderous. He could see the Freys and Blackwoods—close kin through marriage—eying the Reachmen warily, as were the Ironsmiths and Manderlys. Uncle Daeron had crossed his arms, and Grandfather’s fingers were tapping on the bench in front of him.

“Poor girl,” Elaena said softly. “I doubt she’ll come back after this.”

“I wouldn’t in her place,” Mats replied under his breath, “and I don’t quite know why Lady Lyanna brought her here.”

“She doesn’t know her family,” Daeron answered.

“You think the Hightowers want to get to know her? Or Brandon Stark?”

“The Baneforts might. I might.”

“I think she’ll be very happy to talk to someone her own age,” Elaena whispered into his ear.

“People of the realm…”

His High Holiness, escorted by Ser Barristan this time, began to speak, and the room settled down.

“In the sight of gods and men, we are gathered here to mark the passage of the Crown of Westeros, from father to son. Aerys, of the House Targaryen, prince of Dragonstone, hand of the King, rise.”

His grandfather strode forward. His black armour had been polished until it shone, and King Maekar’s mace hung at his side, its spikes catching the light cast from the candles around the dais.

“Aerys, of the House Targaryen, do you swear fidelity to the realm, to her people, to her safety, in the eyes of gods and men?”

“I do so swear.”

“Then come forward.”

Stepping to the edge of the dais,Aerys sank to both knees.

The crown that the High Septon slowly lowered onto the White Dragon’s head—his hands didn’t shake at all, and it was clear to Daeron that the man hadn’t needed an escort the day before—was a plain golden circlet, forged for Aegon the Third and last worn by Aegon the Fifth over forty years past.

“You knelt Prince of Dragonstone. Rise now as Aerys, Second Of His Name, of the House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar, Lord Protector of Westeros.”

As the White Dragon slowly rose, and turned to face the crowd, a deafening cheer rose up; Daeron found himself joining in.

“In the sight of gods and men, I acknowledge Valarr, of the House Targaryen, Halfmaester and Prince of Summerhall, as my heir. I name Matarys, of the House Targaryen, former Prince Regent of Slaynemarch, Hand of the King.” The King’s voice echoed through the sept.

Applause rose from the room—the burghers enthusiastic, the Reachmen less so, he noticed.

_This is off to a great start, I see._

+++

Even for someone who’d lived in the realm’s most populous city for four years, the Great Hall was crowded that evening.

Long tables had been crammed into the chamber, and men, women and children from every corner of the realm were elbow to elbow, as music floated over the crowd. Entering a bit late, Daeron saw that the high table was already full. His grandfather was in deep conversation with young Lancel Lannister, while his grandmother and uncle were speaking with Lord Stark, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Valarr and his family were speaking with a curvy young Dornishwoman. _Isn’t that the Princess Arianne, actually?_

“Enjoying the view?”

He turned quickly to see another Dornishman, this one with a greying black beard, sharp eyes and a roguish smile.

“Prince Oberyn.”

“Prince Daeron.” The Dornishman’s gaze was uncomfortably sharp. “I see you haven’t changed your armour.”

“That was a misunderstanding.” _One which we need to get to the bottom of, and soon._

“My nephew certainly doesn’t think so.”

“I’ve told him otherwise, but—“ Daeron spread his hands out—“if he doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t believe me.”

“You don’t seek to supplant him?”

“No. I…I would’ve preferred to remain an Iron Cloak.” He’d told very people this, and felt surprised to be doing so now. “But there are too few wyvernriders as is.”

The older man regarded him for several moments. “I see. You’ll live here, then?”

“I think I’ll be all over Westeros, Prince Oberyn.” They walked slowly towards the edge of the hall, weaving among small knots of people. “Maybe I’ll find myself in Dorne at some point.”

“Or the North.” Martell clearly noticed the flash of discomfort on his face. “Your encounter this morning has you thinking you’d rather not?”

“How’d you—“

“I have my ways, and you didn’t exactly disguise yourselves, Prince Daeron. Nor did Lord Stark.”

“I was…surprised.”

“When she was designing the flood channels on the Greenblood, Lady Lyanna told me that her brother got too much from their grandfather.” Oberyn seemed to be looking for something. “A smart man, Edwyle Stark, but his hot head got him killed at a young age, along with their other grandparents.”

Daeron blinked. “She was in Dorne?”

“For a year, yes. My daughters looked after Lyarra most days, she was too little to be out in the Dornish sun for hours. It was Lya’s last work before the New Cut, so everyone forgets it.” Oberyn smiled suddenly, and beckoned Daeron. “But come, you can ask her about it yourself.”

“I…really?”

“Yes, they’re over here.”

The table where the two Stark women were seated, alongside the Freys, was as far away from the Hightowers as possible. Gerion Lannister, who’d married Lady Tyta’s sister, was the first to notice them.

“Oberyn! And…Daeron, isn’t it? Elaena’s boy?”

“Indeed.”

Oberyn sat himself down beside Gerion, and tapped Lyarra Stark on the shoulder. The girl, who’d been looking off into the distance, started, and then made room for Daeron.

“Thank you, my lady.” At this distance, he could really see the features that she’d inherited from their great-grandfather: she had the same shape to her eyes, even though they were a different colour.

“Your Grace.”

“We’re…” he stopped himself from saying _we’re family_. “There’s no need for such formality.”

“Then I suppose I’m just Lyarra to you,” she answered quietly.

“If you wish.”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, until Lyanna Stark turned to look at him.

“Oh, forgive me, didn’t see you there, Little—Prince Daeron.”

His eyebrow furrowed. “Little?”

“That’s what your uncle always called you when we visited him at Springport two years back.” Lyanna Stark’s tone was friendly, but he could see her eyes looking him over, as if to assess a threat. “Do you remember that time, Lyarra?”

“I think so.” Her daughter seemed to try and draw herself out of her shell. “He…I think he said you were in the Iron Cloaks?”

“Just finished that up, yes.” He accepted a slice of lamprey pie that Oberyn passed him. “I was in Harroway, near my father’s family.”

“Nice city, but the canals are terrible,” Lyanna replied, gulping from a beaker of ale. Her hands had cut and marks all over them, Daeron realised, much like his mother’s.

“Mother!” Lyarra groaned. “Let’s not bore him talking about canals.”

“Wait a moment, milady, I can’t let this go unanswered. Our canals are hardly _terrible._ ”

“Then what’s with that channel at the foot of Teague Hill?” the older woman shot back. “They built it to drain the fens, and it’s flooded three times already, no? Not to mention the quays.”

Daeron held his hands up. “I…I’m afraid I must surrender, milady. I thought Teague Hill only overflowed once.”

“You weren’t born the first two times,” the Stark woman added bluntly. “Mind, it was still its own village then. I’m told that’s where most of the Dornish in Harroway live now?”

“Indeed.” Daeron paused as he chewed. “Good place for food. Used to patrol up there, actually.”

“Learn any Rhoynish?”

“Not really. There never were too many Orphans of the Greenblood in Harroway.”

“Ah. Excuse me for a moment, Your Grace, I think I spot my brother.” With that, Lyanna stood up and vanished into the crowd, leaving him alone with Lyarra once again.

“She’s…very knowledgeable.”

Lyarra rolled her eyes. “Mum lives and breathes her work, Pr—Daeron. Ever since I was born.” She looked across the room. “This is…this is strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never thought I’d actually be here.” She turned back to face him. “A lot of people in King’s Landing hate me.”

“I don’t,” he protested.

“I didn’t say you did. But my father had a lot of friends, and…my grandparents are right over there, and I don’t dare go speak to them.” She paused. “I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Better than letting it fester.” He took the last morsel of the lamprey pie from his plate.

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, that’s a lovely thought while we’re eating.”

“I suppose so.” Daeron pushed back the plate. “Uncle Valarr’s very…descriptive about these things. Mother said that he was talking about a sheep’s heart he’d cut open at dinner once, when he was back from the Citadel, and she dumped a pitcher of wine on his head.”

Lyarra smiled slightly. “How old was she?”

“Eight namedays, I think?”

“He went when he was young, then.”

“Yes…thankfully. He was already a halfmaester when I was….born.” Daeron felt his hand pass over his stomach, involuntarily.

“Are you all right?”

He froze. _She saw that?_ “Y—yes, I’m fine.”

“The pie wasn’t off, or—“

“No, no, it’s fine.” He shut his eyes for a moment, blood rushing through his ears. Along with a memory of noise. “I’ll….excuse me.”

He barely remembered standing up, or pushing his way through the crowded hall, just the moment where he found himself slumping against the wall in one of the corridors, a phantom pain spreading across his abdomen.

The sound was growing louder in his ears. His mother crying…his father’s voice, and then Uncle Valarr’s…

“Breathe.”

He couldn’t respond at first, but felt a hand grasp his jaw, forcing his head up until he was staring into Lyarra Stark’s eyes.

“What do you see?”

“I…you?”

“What else is in the corridor?”

“I…” he looked around. “A torch, stone walls, two people, a tapestry, the floor, the dirt on the floor, a spiderweb…”

“Right. Now tell me that backwards.”

“A spiderweb, the dirt on the floor…” As he spoke, he could hear less and less from his memories, and felt his stomach relax.

“Sit down.” Lyarra helped him lean up against the wall.

“I…why’d you follow me?”

“I’ve seen it happen before.”

They were silent for a moment.

“When I was seven, I had a growth in my stomach.”

She turned to look at him, her expression impossible to decipher.

“They thought I was going to die. My parents brought me to Dragonstone, and…Uncle Valarr was there, Rhaenys too. He…the maesters didn’t want to try and take it out, because they thought I’d bleed to death, but he told my parents, and grandparents, and the King, that I’d die if they didn’t do something. So they gave me milk of the poppy, as much as they could, and a tincture that one of the archmaesters had designed, to stop me from bleeding out, and he….”

Daeron unclasped his chest plate, setting it on the floor, and then pulled the tunic underneath up. He heard Lyarra’s sharp intake of breath.

The spiderweb pattern of scars stretched from left to right, and up to his ribs.

“They’ve stretched, since I was little.”

“How long did it take him?” she whispered.

“Half of one hour. He had to be very fast, or I would’ve died.”

“My mother still dreams about…my father.” Lyarra looked at the floor as she spoke, and Daeron reattached his breastplate. “Wakes up screaming.”

He turned to her.

“Uncle Gerion taught me how to calm her down. He had a sailor on the _Ser Tywin_ when he was still a captain, he’d almost choked to death under a pile of bodies at the Battle of Highgarden, and he’d get like that. One of the cooks came up with that way.”

“It works.” He straightened up. “Has anyone talked to the Citadel about this?”

She snorted. “From a woman? The archmaesters won’t listen. Uncle Gerion demonstrated it for the septa’s in Rosby, said they do it when they treat broken men.”

“That’s—“He paused. “What was that?”

“What do you—“

“Listen.”

Someone had shrieked from a floor above.

“That was a child.”

The words had barely left Lyarra’s mouth before Daeron began to run, his hand scrabbling uselessly at his belt. _Sap. Where’s my fucking sap?_

 _It’s probably nothing, but…_ He took the grand staircase two at a time, hearing Lyarra’s footsteps behind him. As they reached the first landing, the shriek came again, this time from the right, and then a shout.

_The guards must all be at the feast._

He sprinted down the corridor, and then came to a halt at the first corner, throwing out his arm to stop Lyarra.

There were five people under the tapestry, which depicted the Redgrass Field.

Brandon Stark was deep into his cups, his hand wrapped around a serving girl’s arm— _young, how young_ is _she?_ Part of her dress was torn.

Mark Ryswell was beside him, as was the hard-faced man who’d entered with them that morning. _Karstark,_ the man had the white sun on his tunic.

And Helaena, his brave, foolish little cousin, was standing in front of Stark, her arms stretched out in front of her, as if to ward the man off.

“Come on, Lord Stark.” Her voice was even, barely betraying a hint of tension. “Jeyne’s busy with her work. Let’s go down to the hall.”

“I’ve got some work for Jeyne to do,” Stark rumbled, a sick look in his eyes. “So do my friends.”

Daeron looked around the hall. There were no pieces of furniture, no suits of armour, only one torch—in short, not a single object that he could use.

“My lord, let’s not—“

Stark shoved her into the wall, and Helaena cried out.

“That’s two of them, then,” Karstark grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Stop, you’re hurting me!”

“Never had a Summer Islander before,” Ryswell remarked.

“And you won’t today.”

Daeron launched himself shoulder first into the man at arms, jabbing him in the eye with his fingers. As Ryswell screamed, he grabbed the sword from the other man’s belt and drew it, bringing the blade up to Karstark’s throat.

“Let her go, _now.”_

“You—“

Helaena stamped on his foot, hard, and slipped under Karstark’s arm, fleeing down the corridor. To his left, Daeron saw Lyarra stalk forward, a wicked-looking knife in her left hand.

“You.”

The hatred in Brandon Stark’s voice was unbelievable. Letting the serving girl— _Jeyne—_ go, he drew his own sword, the same one he’d had that morning.

“Me.” Staring her uncle down, Lyarra straightened herself up. “Mother would weep to see this.”

“And your bastard father would, if he saw what I’ll do.” The three northerners began to advance towards them. Looking quickly behind him, Daeron saw that the corridor was a dead end: a heavy, locked door was beside the tapestry, and Stark was between them and the direction from which they’d come.

 _Gods help me._ “It’s not too late, Stark.” Daeron tried to keep his tone even. “You can still walk away.”

“Not without you.” Brandon lifted his sword. “I can’t get out of this castle without a hostage now.”

“How far do you imagine you’ll get, my lord?”

“Far enough!” He lunged, Karstark and Ryswell beside him.

Daeron barely blocked the older man’s first blow, as Lyarra tackled Ryswell, sending him flying. _She’s strong._ The thought almost cost him his head, as Stark swiped at him with the longsword.

“Fucking Valyrian spawn!” the man roared, driving him back towards the door.

Pain erupted along Daeron’s shoulder as Karstark slashed him with his own sword. He ducked a second strike, and felt his back hit the door. Over Brandon Stark’s shoulder, he could see Lyarra, holding Ryswell in a headlock, open his throat with her knife.

“Kill the bitch!” Brandon roared.

As Cregan Karstark turned towards Lyarra, Daeron struck him in the head with the back of his sword. The Karhold man collapsed onto the floor—

—and Stark’s sword slashed across Daeron’s face.

Screaming, he fell to the ground, his hands coming up to the point of pain that had replaced his eye.

“Leave him alone!”

“You…don’t talk to me like that, you bitch!” Daeron could see Lyarra approaching her uncle warily, her knife held out. “I’ll kill you! Like my sister should have.”

“You might.” The younger girl’s face was solemn— _like her other uncle’s._ “At least those girls got away.”

“Wherever they went—“

“They went to get me.”

Holding his hand over the point of pain that had replaced his eye, Daeron looked past Lyarra…and into his cousin’s eyes.

Jaehaerea Targaryen’s normally stunning features were twisted with incandescent rage, and he had never been reminded more of her father. The captain of the _Prince Duncan_ was clad in the black leathers and red-painted chainmail of a Royal Navy officer, her curly black hair tied back and a Valyrian steel sword in her right hand—Dark Sister, the blade that her father had taken from Rhaegar Hightower at the end of their duel in the Dornish Marches.

_She must’ve just come ashore…_

“My sister always comes back to me.” Jaehaerea began to inch forward, her feet never leaving the ground. Reaching out, she pulled Lyarra, who was bleeding from a long cut over her eyes, behind her.

“So when she ran crying into the Hall…well, I heard what I needed to hear. Grandfather will be here soon, Lord Stark. It’ll be too late for you.”

Her left hand moved too fast for Daeron to see, drawing a knife from her belt and pinning Stark’s hand to the wall.. As the northern lord howled, he forced himself to speak.

“Lyarra…look away…”

The Snow girl turned to face Daeron just as Jaehaerea slashed Brandon Stark’s abdomen open.

There was screaming… _it’s his, she must have disembowelled him, how can he be so_ loud _…_ and then running footsteps.

He saw a mix of faces; Daeron the Elder, Grandfather and Grandmother….

“ _My baby!”_

_Mother…_

“El, it’s all right, I’ve got him, I’ve got him.”

He felt someone left him off the floor and begin to walk fast. _Maester…need a maester..my eye hurts…_

“I’ll never forget this.”

“Uncle….Daeron…”

“You’ve lost an eye.”

“No…I…”

“Yes. I’m sorry. You’ll be all right.”

“Always…blunt…”

He heard his uncle laugh softly, and then felt himself drift away.


	5. Joanna III

_The Crown hereby establishes the Order of the Iron Cloak, hereby referred to as the Iron Cloaks, to keep the Crown’s peace in all territories of the Kingdom of the East of Westeros under the Crown’s direct rule. This shall not apply to Gulltown, King’s Landing, Maidenpool, or other towns in which an existing City Watch exercises said responsibilities._

_…_

_Men of the Iron Cloaks shall have the title Guardsman, unless promoted._

_…_

_Every man, who shall have served no fewer than two years in the Iron Cloaks in good conduct, or exhibited exceptional bravery or strength in the service of preserving life, as determined by the Lord Justice of the Crown under whom he serves, or by the Crown, is entitled to claim the rank, title, privileges and responsibilities of a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, with his allegiance given to the Crown until such time as he shall no longer be in service to the Iron Cloaks._

_—Excerpts from the Smith’s Day Proclamation of 262, delivered by King Jaehaerys II at the Great Sept of Baelor. Collected in_ Stackspear’s Reader of Age of Ice and Fire Primary Sources, _Citadel Press._

As Joanna walked into the Great Hall, she could almost feel the terrible silence radiating off the crowd before her.

When Helaena had come running in…she could live another ninety years, and she would never forget the stricken expression on Daeron’s face. Jaehaerea, still smelling of seawater and the night wind off the Narrow Sea, had sunk to her knees, sweeping her sister into them—only to pass her to their father and take off running after the girl had sobbed something into her ear. The rest of the Targaryens had followed moments later, Valarr remaining to reassure the room.

She walked up to the high table, standing beside her son, and tapped her fork on a goblet.

“My lords, my ladies…I regret to inform you that there was a fight within our walls this evening, in which Lord Brandon Stark died.”

“My brother’s…dead?”

The silence was broken by Eddard Stark, coming up to his feet. His face was paler than usual.

Shouts went up, and she had to hold up her hands, until calm fell again. “He…I…he had tried to force himself onto a serving girl. My grandson Daeron and the Lady Lyarra Stark came across them, and…there was a fight. My grandson lost his eye. Lord Stark, and one of his men at arms, Mark Ryswell, lost their lives.”

“Where’s my daughter?”

Lyanna Stark was standing now.

“The infirmary. Tyg, take her there.”

Her cousin nodded, striding forward to take Lady Lyanna’s arm. The Stark woman looked like she was about to pass out.

“That will be all. My lords, my ladies, we will inform the realm of this on the morrow, by raven. The king has suggested that this is not an evening for dancing, but please finish your food if you will.” She nodded, stepping back from the dais.

A slow wave of sound rose over the hall. Leaning over, Joanna beckoned a tall serving boy.

“Your Grace?”

“Bring Willem Dustin and Eddard Stark to me, lad.”

He nodded and vanished into the crowd.

“Will Daeron live?”

She turned to see Rhaenys leaning forward. Her eldest grandchild’s black-purple eyes, a gift from her mother’s family, were wide with shock.

“Yes, he’s just…badly hurt.”

“He has courage, at least,” Aegon remarked casually, turning back to his lemon chicken.

“What do you mean, _at least_?” His sister snapped.

“Not much sense, though. He didn’t have a weapon.”

Joanna felt her fists tightening under the table, and was relieved when Elia pulled Aegon toward her, muttering something in his ear.

“Your Grace?”

She turned to see Dustin and Stark awaiting her. The latter’s face was pale as the north’s summer snows. The former, a stout man with a thick, reddish-brown beard, had a grim expression.

“Yes, my lords. Be seated.” She gestured for them to take the chairs that Valarr and Daer had vacated.

“I…I’m…my…”

“It’s not your fault,” she said quietly, her hands reaching out to cover Eddard Stark’s.

“What do you need us for?” Dustin asked bluntly.

“You’re the only Northerners here, my lord.”

“I barely count,” Eddard said softly. “I left when I was twelve, Your Grace.”

“Be that as it may, you’ve the Stark name. I need you to write a letter, to be sent by raven to your nephew Rodrik, immediately, telling him what has happened here.”

“What of your plans?”

Dustin looked alarmed. “What plans?”

She sighed. “We’d come up with a debt repayment plan for Winterfell. This will…make things difficult.”

The stout man’s eyes widened. “You can say that again.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s an expression in the north.” He turned to Eddard. “Ned…this means you’d be Warden, then?”

“I was going to be at Winterfell, to oversee it.” Rickard Stark’s second son looked at her. “Does this mean—“

“You will most likely become regent for your nephew, for the next two years.”

Dustin whistled. “The Ryswells won’t like that. Nor the Boltons.”

“Can’t imagine the Karstarks will be happy either.” Eddard’s tone was dazed. “I…our niece. He attacked our niece…”

“And my granddaughter.”

He turned to face her, his face a picture of misery. “Your Grace…”

“It won’t be held against you, Justice Stark.” The young man before her had served her husband for decades; she wouldn’t let him be run out of the king’s service over this.

“Daeron will hate us.”

“He’ll remember what Lyarra Snow did for his daughter. I promise you that.”

“I…Your Grace, I’ll write the letter, of course, but…please let me see him.”

_+++_

By the time they two had returned upstairs, Brandon Stark’s body was laid out in the corridor where he’d fallen.

He had taken nearly half an hour to die, lingering until her Daeron, returning from the infirmary, had cut the man’s throat before anyone could stop him. _Surprisingly merciful, all things considered._

She didn’t feel a shred of sympathy for the late Lord Brandon, but Eddard didn’t deserve this.

“We’ll speak to the silent sisters.”

She looked up. Val had come up beside the two of them. “His body will have to go back to Winterfell.”

Looking to her left, Joanna saw Queen Shaena standing there, Helaena in her arms. Tear tracks ran down the sleeping girl’s face, and her great-grandmother’s jaw was set at a hard angle.

“She’ll be having nightmares for quite some time.”

“Your Grace..”

“Don’t apologise for what you didn’t do, Justice Stark.” Shaena shook her head slowly. “What a waste.”

“How’s Jae?” Joanna asked softly.

“She won’t leave little Daeron, or the Snow girl, but she’s fine.”

“She’s killed men before.”

Daeron had returned, his face as grim as ever. Ser Lyn Corbray was at his side, his normal crooked grin nowhere to be seen.

Eddard turned to him. “Your Grace—“

“Don’t try to apologise to me. Not you.” Her second son crossed his arms, looking down at Brandon Stark’s body. “It wasn’t you, nor Mors, nor Beron.”

“Is Lyarra—“

“She’ll have a scar under her eye for life. And the gratitude of my family, which is worth a great deal more. Daer lost his left eye.”

Eddard drew his breath in sharply. “To my brother.”

“To your brother, who had to be half his weight again.” Daeron sighed. “The young can be foolish, as we’ve both learned, Lord Justice.”

“The North has to be told,” Joanna said firmly. “Ryswell died too, and the Karstark man…”

Daeron crossed his arms. “Guilty as the rest. You can’t be thinking that he leaves here alive.” Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he shook his head angrily. “ _Mother._ He can’t.”

“Cregan’s the heir to Karhold,” Eddard said quietly. “Perhaps the Wall?”

“You think he’s worthy to protect the realms of men?”

“I think, Your Grace, that I don’t want to have to put down a revolt the moment I set foot in Winterfell,” Stark answered sharply.

“You’re not still—“

“He is,” Joanna interrupted. “Rodrik Stark’s only fourteen years old, too young to run the North—and Winterfell’s debts still stand.”

“We need to speak about that.” Val, who’d been silent, looked up at the two of them. “If we now take money from Winterfell, after their lord died here, there’s going to be trouble.”

“And if we don’t, then every lord in the realm will know that the Crown doesn’t collect its debts,” she replied. “That’s not an image we can afford to cloak ourselves in. Nobody feared that my uncle Tytos would collect his debts, and he became a laughingstock.”

“How many men have to die for our image?” her eldest son answered.

“How many die if we don’t preserve it?” Daeron retorted. “A weak Iron Throne is the fountainhead of ruin and rebellion.”

“I would collect the debts.” They turned to Eddard, who had torn his gaze away from his brother’s body, with an air of finality. “The North respects strength above all else, Your Graces, and my brother’s…crimes will have gained him no sympathy.”

“If they believe us at all,” Valarr observed gloomily.

“If they don’t, then they don’t, and that’s the end of it,” his brother answered.

“We need to send ravens now, before word trickles out,” Joanna said firmly. “I’ll be in my solar, after…after I visit the infirmary.”

Tygett was keeping watch at the door when she reached the small room, in Maegor’s Holdfast, and she nodded quietly as she passed him. Her cousin’s face, as always, was stern and impassible.

Inside, Jaehaerea was sitting on the edge of one of the two beds occupied, her hand over her cousin’s. Daeron the Younger’s lost eye was covered by a white bandage, and she realised sadly that he would be covering the socket for the rest of his life. Someone had cleaned his sandy brown hair, which was still wet at the front. Elaena was seated at the other end of the bed.

Lyarra Stark was still awake, her head bandaged as well, and was staring silently at Daeron. She had been struck under the nose and right eye, and Joanna could tell she would have a scar as well. _As if finding a betrothal wasn’t hard enough for a bastard-born girl._ King Jaehaerys had legitimised her with the Stark name, a favour to Lord Rickard, but no one in the realm would have forgotten how she had come into the world.

“Has he woken?”

“He passed out while Father was carrying him up here.” Jaehaerea didn’t look up. _She knew I was here._ “Head wounds bleed a lot, but it isn’t dangerous. Although he’ll always carry Lord Stark’s mark on his face.”

“A monster.”

They turned to see Lyarra, her expression haunted, as her hand traced the edge of her face.

“He was,” Jaehaerea nodded.

“No, he made me into a—“

“Don't you ever say that.” The captain of the _Prince Duncan’_ s voice showed emotion for the first time since the Great Hall before Helaena had come running in, when she’d been greeting her family. “ _Ever._ You showed courage that most of my sailors lack.”

“It doesn’t matter!” the girl snapped. “Those who look at me will only see the scar!“

“They’ll know the story, too.” Joanna sat down beside Lyarra. She could see her nephew in the girl’s face, and Lord Rickard too, if she looked hard enough.

“I…it’s different for women, Your Grace, you must know…”

“My daughter has cuts all over her hands from handling the wyverns, so does my goodmother.” While not speaking, Elaena held up her hands silently: they were rough, with scar tissue tracing all over her fingers and palms.

“And I…I have more blood on my hands than any Targaryen except my husband.” The haunting screams of Castamere and the Bloody Gate floated up, and she pushed them away.

“I’m not a Targaryen, Your Gr—“

“Aunt.”

“I’m…I’m sorry?”

“It’s Aunt Joanna to you, not my title. I’m…” She sighed. “You’re our family, Lyarra, and I wish I hadn’t let you forget that.”

She heard a sharp intake of breath from Elaena.

“Daer?”

Her grandson’s remaining eye had opened.

“I…Mother?” He sat bolt upright. “The girls—“

“They’re fine, they’re fine. Relax.” Elaena forced him to sit back. She could see a tear in the corner of her daughter’s eye. “I…what were you _thinking?_ You’re…I already buried your father, I can’t lose you too.”

“When you’re a Cloak, and you hear someone scream, you _run.”_ His hand traced a pattern on the quilt. “If I’d waited, something bad would’ve happened to Helaena, or Jeyne.”

Joanna frowned. “Jeyne?”

“The serving girl. She was _nine._ ”

“I don’t regret what I did,” Jaehaerea growled.

She sighed. “Jae—“

“A child-toucher gets what he deserves, Grandmother.” She stretched, and Joanna could see Dark Sister at her granddaughter’s hip. “Forgive me, but my eyes are closing themselves.”

 _She always said she never sleeps well on shipboard._ “Of course. You’re staying with your father and sisters, then?”

“Yes, I’ve three days’ leave, so I don’t have to be on the _Duncan_ for a while.” Jaeh squeezed Daeron’s hand once before she stood up. As always, her feet were dead quiet as she slipped out the door, passing a returning Lyanna Stark as she did.

The halfmaester nodded to Joanna, sitting on the other side of the bed. For all that she’d suffered at Joanna’s nephew’s hands, Lyanna bore no grudge against the king or his family. _Not after what my Daeron did._

“You brave, foolish girl.” Lyanna leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Lyarra’s. “ _Never_ do that to me again.”

“I couldn’t let her…I couldn’t let it happen. Not to Prince Daeron’s daughter.”

Lyanna swallowed whatever she’d been about to say.

“Uncle Brandon…”

“He’s as dead as I was to him.” Lyanna shook her head slowly.

“I’m sorry,” Joanna said quietly.

“The day Rhaegar….once he took me, I was never clean, not to my brother. He looked at me and only saw Father being eaten alive. I think he blamed me for it, at some level. And Eddard, because we were going to visit him when it happened.”

“He was a fool.” Elaena’s voice was as quiet as her mother had ever heard it, her eyes fixated on Daeron’s missing one.

“You don’t have to tell me.” A tear slipped down Lyanna’s cheek. “My mother..she was so ashamed of what he became, I think it was what killed her in the end, I really do.”

“That and losing her husband,” Joanna added softly. _I thought I was going to dissolve like wet paper when Ty died, and we never even married._

“Aye.” The halfmaester dabbed at her face with her sleeve. “What a day from the Seven Hells this was.”

“Jo—Your Grace?” She looked up to see Tygett. “Eddard Stark sent a scroll to you just now, with a servant.

_The letter to his nephew._

Joanna rose silently, slipping out of the room as Elaena began to speak with Lyanna.

Reading the scroll as she climbed the stairs to the Maegor’s Holdfast rookery, she found it adequate, if shakily written. _Not Lord Justice Stark’s usual writing style, but he’s had a bad day and no mistake._

She fell asleep alone that night, as Aerys was still somewhere else, and didn’t notice when he came in.

He was there, though, when a serving girl knocked on their door early, a scroll with the direwolf seal in her hand.

+++

_Your Graces,_

_It does not seem that my father received a trial for the crimes he was alleged, by a serving girl, to have committed. I will accept the return of his remains, but do not consider this matter settled._

_Having reviewed your proposal for debt repayment, I cannot accept it. My uncle Eddard, while doubtless a faithful servant of House Targaryen, is not of the North, and cannot take up the role of Warden, as you suggest._

_As the only alternative you give me is to yield Winterfell Castle, its lands and incomes, to the Crown, I shall do so._

_I do not yield my position as Warden and Lord Paramount in the North, nor the incomes or titles associated therewith. I shall exercise my duties from another holdfast._

_Rodrik Stark_

_Lord of Winterfell_

_Warden of the North_

_What in the Seven Hells is that boy thinking?_

Joanna pushed the paper back to her husband, his face still as stone.

“This must be a joke,” her Daeron growled.

“It isn’t.” Mats sighed.

“He’s just giving up his home?”

“He’s giving up his land. There’s a difference.” Joanna shook her head slowly.

“He can’t be Warden of the North without any land,” her second son muttered.

“Landholding isn’t a requirement.” Aerys spoke for the first time since he’d read the letter, his purple eyes unreadable.

“Who will swear allegiance to a lord without a castle?” Daeron shot back.

“He still has the Stark name, his mother’s family at his back, and his own hand to betroth.”

“And neither land nor coin.”

“Many of the tax treaties in the North name House Stark as the party owed payment, not Winterfell.” Mats sighed. “Lord Justice Eddard isn’t the head of the house, and we can’t declare him such without the region rising up in revolt. Odious as young Lord Stark seems to be, he has the right of it. His uncle’s lived most of his life south of the Neck.”

“How much coin will Rodrik Stark take in?” Joanna asked quietly.

“I don’t know. There’s a tax on grain brandy that goes to the Warden of the North, for defence against wildlings, so he’ll get that. I shall have to have a look.”

“Can Winterfell be maintained without the full revenue?” Daeron asked sharply.

“Many servants would have to be let go, I should think. Again, I’ll look, but taxes are tricky.”

“What seat does he intend to keep, even?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Aerys sighed heavily. “I shall inform Lord Justice Stark of this; he sails in two days.”

“He..wait, he didn’t mention Cregan Karstark in this,” Mats pointed out. “What should we—“

“I’ll give him the option to take the black,” the king said firmly. “I extended it to my own nephew. I cannot now deny it to Karstark.”

“And if he doesn’t take it?”

“Trial before me, or by combat. Daeron, if you think you can beat him…”

“Little Daeron won against him, so I should think that I can.” The Prince Regent of Springport stretched. “But I won’t take it ill if a Kingsguard does so instead. And by Kingsguard—“

“—You mean Arthur Dayne.”

“I want Karstark dead, Father.” Daeron rose. “I have to go oversee the packing.”

“You still plan to depart on the morrow?”

“I’ve lost whatever taste for this city I had left.”

“Very well. Mats, you’re free to go as well if you wish.”

As the Hand closed the door behind them, she turned to her husband.

“What a coronation.” His voice was low, and his head rested on the palm of his hand.

She was silent.

“I remember Edwyle Stark perfectly well. If you’d told me, at the Cape of Eagles, that my granddaughter would end up killing his grandson…”

“Brandon got himself killed.”

He shook his head slowly. “Jaehaerea should’ve left him alive.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want a bloody revolt in the north!” he growled. “We’ve lost all our old allies, my love. Leyton hates me for sending his son to the Wall, your cousin’s Lancel is soft in the head, the Starks will want me to fall as well, and the Martells were never all that strong to begin with.”

“Allies against whom?”

“Essos. The Wynches.”

She sighed. “Aerys…”

“That woman’s as patient as anyone alive today, Jo.” He shook his head angrily. “Not a day has passed in the last thirty-eight years where I haven’t regretted letting her sail away from Tarth.”

She grasped his chin, turning his face towards her. “What was the alternative, love? Fight her and the Arryns both? You needed to deprive them of a fleet, and your father didn’t want a war on two fronts, either.”

“She’s got more ships than Lancel or Leyton put together, now, maybe even the Redwynes. And the taxes—Jo, if she’s paying the correct amount of tax, there are nearly as many Iron Islanders as northerners, now.”

“More revenue for us, then.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Aerys, you loop around Wynch again and again. She’s old. _We’re_ old. Her son isn’t her match, and the ironborn have never managed to hold onto what they take or build up. She can’t match the navy, or the Royal Army. You need to let that go.”

He sighed heavily. “I…you may be right. I'll call the Small Council together, we need to go over this letter with them as well."

_Much good_ _that'll do._


	6. Daeron III

_282 brought the greatest challenge to King Jaehaerys’ reign yet, when his grandson Rhaegar Hightower, heir to Oldtown, abducted Lyanna Stark, daughter of Lord Rickard, from a ship in Ironman’s Bay on wyvernback. The crew died, as did Lord Stark, then on his way to Nunn’s Deep to visit his deceased wife’s sister Branda, and his son Eddard, who was fostering with his aunt._

_Rhaegar seemingly vanished into thin air, setting off a frantic hunt. Fearing an uprising in the North, Prince Aerys himself set out on wyvernback, along with three of his four children, and his mother._

_It was Prince Daeron, then the fiercest swordsman in the family, along with Lyanna’s cousin Beron Banefort, her brother Eddard, and the new Kingsguard Ser Lyn Corbray, who had the most luck. After receiving word of a wyvern spotted over the Dornish Marches, Daeron and his brother Matarys made for Summerhall, and then further west. At a ruined holdfast that had once guarded the approach to Summermarch from the south, they spotted a wyvern, along with several men outside. Matarys was ordered by his brother to leave his passenger, Ser Lyn, there, and to return to Summerhall to fetch a maester._

_It was a scene that Daeron had never seen before, in dreams or waking._

_Three figures stood in front of the tower. One man, his hair and beard red, had his blade drawn. A second, a towering man in Kingsguard white, clutched his own in both hands._

_And between them…he knew who that was, had seen his lips and nose in Lyarra Stark’s face._

Rhaegar. And this…this is the Tower of Joy, though never came so much sorrow from so small a place.

_The heir to Oldtown himself was smiling, his arms extended._

_“Cousin. It’s good to see you here.”_

_Beside him, a wyvern, still young by the look of its scales, hissed._ Quicksilver. _His mother had raised this beast._

And now I’m to watch him die, unless I can wake up.

_“You’re a fool.”_

_The voice came from behind Daeron, and he forced himself to turn around._

Gods be good.

 _There were four of them behind him. Eddard Stark, younger than Daeron had ever seen him, without a beard. A gaunt man with Stark grey eyes, and red hair like weirwood leaves, a hooded man on his black tunic and a vicious-looking flail in his right hand._ Beron Banefort. It has to be. _He’d never met Branda Stark’s eldest son in life, and he knew that he wouldn’t leave the field before them._

_Lyn Corbray, still half a boy, his sardonic smile twisted into a sneer, a white cloak about his shoulders._

_And his uncle. Daeron Targaryen the Older, all of seventeen years old—_ younger than me— _was clad in black armour with dragon wings at his temple. His right hand, which young Daeron had never seen, was wrapped around the grip of Blackfyre, and his face was as grim as ever it had appeared. Morningstar stood behind him, her teeth bared in a silent snarl towards her brother._

_“Not the greeting I had hoped for,” Rhaegar admitted._

_“You killed my father,” Eddard snarled._

_“And my uncle.” Banefort reached up to snap down the visor of his helmet, forged in the shape of a hood. “Yield now, Ser, and we may yet be merciful.”_

_“You would kill your kin by marriage?”_

_“Whatever you have done to Lyanna, it counts not as marriage to me.”_

_“Nor me.”_

_“Nor me.” Old Daeron drew his sword, as did Eddard, and Ser Lyn. “Step aside, cousin. Let her go back to her family.” Morningstar opened her mouth and roared._

_With a hiss of steel, Rhaegar drew his sword. Black and red at the handle, and forged of rippling Valyrian steel_

_“Gods be good,” Corbray muttered. “That’s…”_

_“Something I found across the Wall, when I visited our dear uncle. Daeron, if you’d seen what I saw, when I crossed into the True North…”_

_“It matters not,” the other replied, his eyes growing colder and colder. He looked almost exactly like his daughter, for all that their skin was different shades. “You’ve murdered the Lord of Winterfell, cousin, and forced yourself on his daughter. If you return to Dragonstone with us,_ now, _you may yet live. I make no promises if you remain here.”_

_“If you’d seen what I’d seen, you’d fight with me. Not against me.” Rhaegar inched backwards, remounting Quicksilver._

_“I haven’t, and I shan’t.” Daeron swung himself up onto Morningstar. “Stark, Banefort, Corbray, kill these lackwits at my cousin’s heels.” His tone was that of a man grown._

_The two wyverns began to creep towards each other, teeth bared—and then Morningstar leapt into the air, her brother following her._

_On the ground, Lyn Corbray crossed swords with Gerold Hightower, as the Stark-Banefort cousins surrounded Connington. The red-haired Stormlander almost struck Eddard Stark’s heard off with a vicious swipe._

_Above, the two wyverns were barely inches from one another, snapping and scratching. Daeron could barely see the two men atop them, only the occasionally flash of Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel._

_Disarming Lyn Corbray, Hightower brought his blade to open the younger man’s throat, only to sink to his knees as Beron Banefort threw his shield straight and true, striking the Kingsguard in the head. It was his last move, as Connington stabbed him through the stomach, taking advantage of his distraction, only to take Stark’s sword through his eye._

This…this is so _fast._

_Hearing a screech, he looked up. Morningstar had a giant slash across her leg, and Quicksilver brought his head back, as if to lunge—only to suddenly look directly up, exposing his throat._

What in the Seven Hells?

_Seeing the opportunity, Daeron drove Blackfyre deep into the beast’s throat—leaving his arm exposed. The younger Daeron could only watch as Rhaegar sliced through his cousin’s wrist, leaving the sword and dead hand trapped in the wyvern’s body._

_It was too late. Thrashing, Quicksilver plummeted from the air, blood spurting from his throat, as Daeron collapsed atop Morningstar. The older wyvern crashed into the dirt—_ on top of Rhaegar’s leg, _he could hear the man screaming, or maybe that was his uncle._

_With a wild yell, Eddard Stark lunged for Rhaegar, only for Corbray to hold him back._

_“He’ll stand trial, you hear?” The Kingsguard said firmly._

_“My—“_

_And then a scream, from the tower._

_“She needs you._ Go. _”_

_As Stark sprinted for the tower, Corbray pulled a rope from his belt. Rhaegar was unconscious, but he tied the heir’s hands regardless. Quicksilver, apart from a few convulsions, was already quite dead._

_Landing behind him, Morningstar let out a low keening sound, twisting around to try and reach the older Daeron, who seemed to have passed out. Corbray cursed as he tried to unclasp the buckles at the wyvern’s side—_

And Daeron had woken up.

The morning light had just been filtering in through the curtains, and he’d seen Lyanna Stark sitting at her daughter’s side.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

_What’s going on?_

“I…I almost died, Mother.” Lyarra’s voice had been soft. “I can’t go to my grave never seeing him, not once.”

“He’s not your father. Lya…has nothing I’ve told you stuck in your head?” The halfmaester had whispered furiously, apparently thinking that Daeron was still asleep.

“I—“

“Ty’s the closest thing you’ll ever have to a father, I’m sorry, but—I wish he’d been a better man. He wasn’t, Lya.”

“I don’t want him to die without ever having seen him.”

“What, so that you can curse at him? It isn’t worth it.” Lyanna had sighed heavily. “If you want to see Winterfell, I understand. Go. See your grandmother’s bones, and your grandfather’s, a man you’ll never know because of your father. See my grandfather’s, for that matter. Stand under the godswood. Hells, go to Castle Black if you want. But…I swear, if you go to Eastwatch…”

He heard Lyanna stand up, and leave the room. Lyarra moved a little, turning her face towards the window.

After a moment, Daeron had pulled himself up, and the girl’d turned towards him.

“You’re awake.”

“I’d noticed.” His fingers had traced the bandage over his eye. “Need to get out of this bloody bed. And learn to walk again. And fight, and fly.”

She’d tilted her head to one side. “Why?”

“Have to learn to not use the missing eye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, but that won’t bring it back.”

They’d been silent for a moment.

“I’m going to the Wall. After everyone leaves here, when Uncle Eddard goes back to Winterfell.”

 _Gods help him._ “Have they started taking women in the Watch?”

“To see my fa—Rhaegar.”

He’d tried to act surprised. “I…really?”

“I almost died, yesterday. I can’t…I don’t want to grow old and grey and never have seen his face, not once. I can’t…I can’t forgive him. Ever, for what he did to my mother, and my grandfather. But he made me as much as Mother did, hate it though she and I both might.”

“I can take you.”

Her eyes had widened. “I’m sorry?”

“With my wyvern.” He needed to get out of the bed more than ever. Jaer couldn’t fly further than Harroway, and even that would be pushing it. “You’re fairly light, you’ll fit.”

“Just what a girl loves to hear.”

“I mean it. They send medicines to the Wall by wyvern all the time. I can just take them instead of…whoever usually does.” There were several non-Targaryens who could fly—Doran Martell’s sons, a few of the Penroses, the Velaryon bastard Aurane Waters—and most of them worked as couriers. _Not that they’re complaining._ There were few better options for second and third sons.

+++

Present day

Daeron rose before dawn, adjusting the still-unfamiliar eyepatch, and made his way to the entrance hall of Maegor’s Holdfast, nodding to several of the servants as he passed them by. It had been a sennight since Brandon Stark’s death, and he was finally up and active again, having resumed training in the tiltyard three days before.

 _Now I look a proper Iron Cloak, I guess, with the one eye. Ironically._ He was clad in a proper wyvern rider’s suit of leather armour, the three-headed dragon stamped above his heart.

“Daeron?”

As he exited the Holdfast, he saw Lyarra Stark leaning against the frame, speaking softly with his mother.

“Mother, Lyarra.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” the Stark girl said quietly. “Mother isn’t…happy.”

Elaena nodded sympathetically. “She’s going to come with us, Daeron, to the pit.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, her son nodded. “Just what I wanted—the chance to fall on my arse in front of an audience.”

“You were an Iron Cloak, I think you can handle it.” They walked towards the courtyard, where he noticed that several horses had been saddled. _Guess we can’t fly with Lyarra._

“I won’t laugh,” Lyarra said solemnly. “I never did when I was teaching the Frey girls to swim.”

“ _You_ taught the _Freys_ to swim?”

“Daeron, my mother builds canal locks. I’ve been in the water since I was barely a nameday old.”

“True.”

The city was still quiet at that hour. All the nobles that had come for the coronation had left, including Valarr, Daeron the Older and their families. Even Eddard Stark had set off by ship for White Harbour.

Lyanna and Lyarra hadn’t gone with them. Daeron suspected that the older woman was being considered for a Lady Justice’s position. Storm’s End and Slaynemarch both needed one, with Mats now the Hand and Lyanna’s brother gone to Winterfell. _Of course, she’d have to leave Lady Frey if that were to be the case._

The Dragonpit guards stepped aside instantly upon seeing Elaena, one of them nodding to Daeron as well. The pit itself was noisy, with wyverns hissing, cooing and growling from the cages.

Lyarra’s eyes were wide. “How many are here?”

“One hatchling, three yearlings, three that are too old to be ridden anymore, four wild ones for breeding, two that have clutches of eggs.” As they dismounted, Elaena retrieved her crop from a nail in the brick wall, along with a bucket of what looked like sheep offal. “The family’s wyverns are in the stables at the Red Keep.”

The two of them followed Elaena as she strode towards one of the doors.

“Right. These are the yearlings. They’re siblings, and I’m hoping one of them will take to my son.” A key hung by the door, and she jammed it into a rusty-looking keyhole. “Lyarra, stay a little bit back, please. The ones that are ridden are used to people, but this lot won’t be.”

The Stark girl inched back as Elaena threw up the door. There was silence for a moment, then Daeron saw something moving in the dark—and a wyvern crept out. He could hear Lyarra’s intake of breath.

No species of wild wyvern was ever blue, but the magics that the Blackfyres had used to twist them into tame creatures had changed their colouring. The one that was looking at him was the colour of the summer sky at midday, with hints of juvenile white in his scales. Somewhat smaller than Jaeraxes, he looked around warily, hissing softly.

“That’s Aegraxes?” He murmured softly. _He’s magnificent._

“Yes. Now—hmmm.”

A second shape slipped out of the darkness, and Daeron gasped. The other wyvern was _red._ His mother’s Aerea was, as well, but that was brick- or sandy-red. This was the colour of a ruby. _Or a weirwood_. Her eyes—Daeron could tell male from female wyverns, like most of his family—were nearly pure white.

“Is she blind?”

“No.” His mother was wary. “She can see fine, although she doesn’t usually come out.”

Aegraxes began to pace forward, his long neck extended. Daeron reached his hand out, until the wyvern’s smooth nose brushed up against it. Sniffing for a moment, Aegraxes came forward again, brushing up against Daeron’s shoulder as the boy reached out to scratch his neck. He was still the size of a garron. _I doubt I can fly with two on his back._

“That’s good—oh!”

Elaena whipped her neck around as the red wyvern sidled forwards—towards Lyarra.

“Melys! Here!”

His mother’s stern tone aside, the wyvern barely reacted, only looking back briefly. He could see fear in Lyarra’s eyes. “What—“

“Don't move.” Elaena struck the wyvern’s back with her crop, getting no reaction.

Melys reached Lyarra in a few strides, tilting her head to one side and exhaling softly, almost like a horse—before she pushed her head against Lyarra’s chest gently. Slowly, hesitantly, the girl reached out, stroking the wyvern’s head.

“I’ll be damned.” Elaena was standing stock still.

“What..what’s going on?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it,” his mother said softly, watching as Melys rubbed up against Lyarra. “Her father was a wyvern rider too.”

Lyarra started. _“What?”_

“It’s true.” Elaena had a smile on her lips.

“I can’t be a wyvern rider!”

“Why not?”

“My…all my mother will see is my father,” the girl whispered. Melys gurgled softly, sounding unhappy.

“She may very well see my brother instead, Lyarra.” His mother shook her head slowly. “Your mother doesn’t hate my whole family, that I know.”

Lyarra bit her lip. “I can’t ride.”

“I’ll teach you. You said you wanted to visit the Wall, didn’t you?”

“Well…I mean, I guess, if I could fly her there—“

“You’ll have to. Aegraxes is too small, I think.” His mother whistled sharply, and the two wyverns turned back, allowing her to lure them into the cage with the bucket of offal. “Daer, stay here. I’ll fetch Jaeraxes from the Red Keep. Don’t let these two fly off.”

“Mother?”

“She can’t learn on Melys, I’m afraid. She’s broken to ride, but she’s too fleet for someone new. I’ll saddle Melys up myself, you can take Aegraxes, and Lyarra, you’ll learn on Jaeraxes. He’s sweet-tempered, I promise you. Better than many horses I’ve known, and no mistake.”

As his mother set off to fetch her horse, Daeron looked to see Lyarra exhale shakily.

“I can’t believe this.”

“You can’t think your mother will be that angry, do you?”

“I…I don’t know. Will Melys even let your mother ride her?”

“All the wyverns know my mother.” He leaned against the pit wall, allowing Aegraxes to curl up beside him. “And your presence will calm her a great deal.”

“What if I fall?”

“Jaeraxes won’t let you fall. I was riding him when I had five namedays.”

“Really?”

Daeron smiled. “Aye. My first memory is flying over the Mountains of the Moon, when he was still young, with my mother holding me. She took me up when I was a few days old, I think, me and my father.”

“Do you…do you remember him?”

“Yes.” Daeron scratched Aegraxes behind the ears. “He had dark brown hair, a beard he kept well-trimmed, and a big laugh. He went to the Sept of the Mother of the Rivers every day at the end of his rounds, when he was an Iron Cloak, and he’d bring me sometimes. He patrolled around Foundry Hill, in Harroway, and he always smelled like iron and charcoal smoke.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Iron?”

“Like blood, I suppose.”

“What…”

“Stabbed in the back in a tavern fight. I was seven years old.” He fell silent.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well…” he laughs softly. “You have a living father you hate, I have a dead one I loved dearly. Cant tell who’s worse off.”

“You have good memories of yours, at least.”

He fell silent at that, until a roar caused them to look up. His mother brought Jaeraxes down in the middle of the pit, swinging off him in one fluid motion.

“Right, then.” She ducked into one of the doorways, returning with a pair of wyvern saddles. “Daer, take Aegraxes. Lyarra, I’ll show you how to put this on Melys.”

Daeron found out quickly that Aegraxes didn’t like his stomach being touched, and had to dodge the wyvern’s hard, scaly tail several times before he fastened the girth. Looking over, her saw that Melys was far calmer, allowing Lyarra to fasten the leather strap beneath her chest.

“It’s not so different from a horse, is it?” Elaena laughed. “All right, then.” Ground-tying Melys, she led Lyarra over to Jaeraxes, who chuffed softly as he sniffed her hands.

“Step into my hands, and— _up._ ” Elaena boosted her cousin’s daughter into Jaeraxes’ saddle as Daeron pulled himself up Aegraxes’ side; the younger wyvern was far shorter.

“Do…how do I steer?”

Elaena tapped the crop hooked into the saddle before returning to her own mount.

Lyarra’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that cruel?”

“No, their hide’s too thick. And tap them on the side you want them to turn to, opposite of a horse. Horses shy away from pressure, dragons and wyverns turn to attack.” Elaena swung herself up onto Melys, who hissed softly. “Just follow us, all right? We’ll go up the Blackwater a ways, and turn back. I think we can get you to fly to Dragonstone at some point, you’ll need to be able to if you’re going up to the Wall.”

“Uh…shouldn’t I—-“

“Best way to learn is doing. And… _sovegnon!_ ”

Melys began to run, leaping into the air halfway through the pit. Lyarra looked at Daeron nervously.

“Same word, hold tight. He won’t let you fall.” He was more worried about himself in truth. Aegraxes was restless already.

She nodded tightly. _“Sovegnon—_ arrgh!”

Well-trained, Jaeraxes surged forwards, climbing into the air much quicker than Melys had. Daeron had to tap Aegraxes a few times with the crop to get him going, but they eventually followed the other two into the air.

King’s Landing was becoming busier, and he could see people on the streets pointing up at the three of them as they banked westward, towards the stout market towns of the Lower Blackmarch. Looking to his side, Daeron could see Lyarra’s wide eyes. _I wish I could experience this for the first time as well._ She was doing quite well: good horse riders rarely had trouble on wyvernback, and the other way around.

The Stark girl’s eyes were shining with moisture as they dipped down towards the Blackwater, and a smile creased her face.

+++

“You know what I find odd?”

“What?”

They had been in the air for a few hours, and were now returning for breakfast with the family, having landed, to shock, in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Lyarra had gone a bit ahead of them.

“That the family wyvern tamer didn’t think that Rhaegar’s daughter might be…interesting to those she raised.”

His mother was silent for a moment.

“Well?”

“She never would’ve come if I’d told her.”

Daeron shook his head angrily. “You didn’t give her a choice.”

“She didn’t have to come, and she wouldn’t have made it to the Wall with you on Aegraxes.”

“And if she’d rejected Melys?”

“Melys was never going to be anyone else’s.”

He frowned. “Explain.”

“Daer…I was shocked when she hatched. That colour of red…have you ever seen it before? Anywhere?”

He shook his head. “I mean…no.”

“I have. When Father did a royal progress through the north with me, when I was ten years old, and I rode Jaeraxes. Melys is the colour of weirwood leaves, Daeron, beyond the shadow of a doubt. So when I heard that the daughter of a wyvern rider and a Stark was going to come here…I wanted her to meet Melys at least.”

“What if—“

“You think I would’ve let Melys hurt her?”

“You tried to get her to turn back, and she didn’t.”

“I have my ways, and I’ll leave it at that. No wyvern of mine has ever attacked a visitor to the Pit, my son, and none ever will.”

“Ever’s a long time, we used to say in the Cloaks.”

They had come to the main dining room of the Holdfast, and realised that everyone was dead silent. And staring at them. Mats had a smile tracing his lips. Aerys’ was more obvious.

And Lyanna Stark rushed forward, sweeping her daughter into her arms. Daeron tried not to eavesdrop, but couldn’t help but hear her muffled words.

“I’m so proud of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ground tying: a practice where you lay the lead or reins on the ground, very slowly. A well-trained horse won't move if you do this.
> 
> Aegraxes' dislike of the girth is based on the Haflinger that I rode in equine therapy.
> 
> And yes, wyverns are a lot like cats in behaviour. Because I said so.


	7. Ulla I

_Icon to feminists and disabled people, ferocious pirate, crafty politician, Iron Islands chauvinist and nationalist—Ulla Wynch may personify the saying that “what is dead may never die”. Lady Reaper of Pyke for most of the latter half of the 3rd century, her name is remembered down to the present day, whether by place names, sayings, musical groups (Ulla’s Teats was one of the most beloved punk bands of its day) and cheap souvenirs._

_Her life is relatively well-known to us. Born in 242 to the younger brother of Lord Gerold Pyke, unable to walk since birth due to what is believed to have been a heart condition , she lost her family during the thralls’ uprising of 259, and was forced into exile as a sellsail. It was her fleet that brought Aemon Blackfyre to Westeros, after which she retook the islands from the Western and Riverlands men who had occupied them: few of the thralls had wanted to remain, choosing to settle in the Gift instead, and the small folk rallied behind her. King Aemon named her Lady Reaper of Pyke himself; with perhaps only 1 in 20 Iron Islands nobles having survived the revolt, she was the obvious choice._

_Ulla Wynch was wed only briefly, to Simeon Pyke, a bastard from the island of Blacktyde, who died shortly before her son was born. As the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion drew to a bloody close after Firbough Sept, Lady Wynch bent the knee to Prince Aerys Targaryen. In return, she offered no aid to Ronnel Arryn, the last of Aemon’s supporters on the mainland, nor to Calla Blackfyre in her last stand in the rainwood, and said not a word while the Vale was besieged, taken and shired into the Kingdom of the East. There were rumours then, some of which have merit, that a Vale lord had tried to have his way with one of Ulla’s captains. Others claimed that Blackfyre had struck one of her guards. We can be certain, in either case, that the Blackfyres’ mainlander allies disliked her immensely._

_Like Aerys, Ulla Wynch had learned a great deal from the learned men who had accompanied King Aemon, many of whom she brought back to Pyke. It was in her time that Lordsport gained its sewer and water system, and that the glass gardens were built near the ruins of Castle Pyke. Wynch also introduced sugar kelp, originally found only near Faircastle, along with other forms of seaweed, and built up mussel ranches and crab-raising pots in her own waters. Archaeological data suggests that this may have contributed two inches to the average height of Iron Islanders, as other lords and ladies copied the methods Lady Wynch introduced. The population of the islands more than doubled in her time, and the Iron Fleet of 298 was stronger than the Braavosi navy—or any seagoing force save the Royal Navy. Her Bloody Hand, created in imitation of the Iron Cloaks on the mainland, outnumbered the forces available to House Stark, and the Islands’ standing army was greater than the men at arms in the West, North or Dorne._

_Politically, the Islands were also changed immensely. With Ulla’s guidance, Aemon Blackfyre had replaced the extinct ironborn houses, naming her captains the new Lords of the Isles. Houses Rediron, Sailwright, Saltstone and Weaver were created anew, while her loyal guard Joron Farwynd was given dominion over western Great Wyk. In the end, there were only ten ironborn houses, each with far more territory than before. At the same time, because of her early adoption of the technologies brought back from Essos—and the construction of the Driftwood Shop, one of the first scientific laboratories in Westeros—Ulla’s domain of Pyke surpassed even the islands of Harlaw and Great Wyk to become the richest and most populous._

_The Kingdom of the East forgot Lady Wynch in the years between 260 and 298, save a brief interlude where Rhaegar Hightower was thought to have fled to Pyke. The West and Reach did not, nor did Prince Aerys._

_It was in 298, aged 56 and fierce as ever, that she reminded the mainland that she was still there..._

_—From Archmaester Yohn’s_ Unquiet Ghosts: The Closing Years of the Chaotic 3rd Century, _Weirbough Press_

The wind had died down shortly before dawn, and she broke her fast on the terrace overlooking Iron Holt.

“Going to be a fair day.”

“Aye.” She accepted the slice of black bread that Yara Saltstone passed her, marvelling again at how much the girl looked like her grandfather, one of Ulla’s captains in the war. The Saltstones had been given lordship of Saltcliffe in the years that followed, and done well for themselves.

Beneath, she could see the fishing and kelp skiffs setting out. Iron Holt was far smaller than Lordsport, now the fourth largest city under the Targaryen banner, but it had grown by more than three times since she was a girl. _Smells better, too._

“My lady?”

She turned to see a young serving boy, with the sharp-nosed look of a Sunderly about him, offering her a scroll. “This was just delivered from the Red Keep.”

_Is this the day?_

She opened it, began to read—and dropped her mug, which shattered on the hard black stone.

Yara started. “Lady Wynch? Is all—“

“Fetch my son and grandchildren. _Now._ ” The boy nodded and turned back into the castle. Finishing the scroll, she slid it across the table to Yara.

The younger woman’s face blanched. “Storm God’s balls, this is….”

“I can scarcely believe it myself.”

“Mother?”

She turned to see her son at the entrance, her two oldest grandchildren beside him.

Ulla had prayed to the Drowned God to help her keep her child safe, and he had listened. Dalton Wynch had her hair and eyes, the only trace of his father about his nose and lips. His daughter, pale-eyed Eldra, took after the Stonetree side of her family, while Quellon had Ulla’s own round face, and golden hair. If Simeon Pyke’s mother hadn’t been a blond thrall taken in a raid north of the Wall, she’dve been hard pressed to explain that one.

“Dalt, El, Quel. Be seated.” She was in the habit of rising much earlier than most of the castle. They’d had a feast to mark Yara’s betrothal to Haakon Goodbrother, another grandchild of one of Ulla’s captains, and her son had drunk rather more than he ought.

“Is aught ill?” Quel asked sharply. _I’d skip over Dalt for him if I could, and that’s the truth._

“Not for us, but this is an ill-fated day on the Greenland,” Yara said. “Lord Brandon Stark was caught trying to rape a serving girl in the Red Keep, after the feast for the White Dragon’s coronation. He’s been killed.”

She saw a subtle smile creep over Quellon’s face.

“Blasted wolf,” Dalt muttered, reaching for some black bread. “His heir’s a boy, no?”

“Rodrik Stark, aged fourteen, aye. About Quel’s age,” Eldra added.

 _Why did all the brains skip a generation in this bloody family?_ Dalton wasn’t a useless fool like the White Dragon’s grandson was said to be; he was decent at arms, and a skilled steelsmith, a profession respected by every man, woman and child in the Iron Islands. But he’d no head for letters or figures at all, couldn’t hold his ale, and his children could already outwit him with ease. _Thank the Drowned God that Quel’s the firstborn._ She didn’t know what Dalt’s youngest boy, four-moon old Nute, would be like, and his second daughter…would never be a queen, put it that way.

“What are we going to do about this?” Dalt asked.

His other redeeming quality, and the one that made up for the others: she had taught her son to know what he didn’t know.

“There’ll be a split between the Starks and the crown,” Quel muttered. “If we can divide them—“

“We can’t get either of them to like the ironmen,” his sister retorted. “That’s the one thing that holds them together.”

“Don't need to.” The boy shook his head. “If they’re at each others’ throats, it can only help us.”

_If your grandfather could see you, he’d be so proud, my love. I wish I could tell you that._

“It will.” Ulla raised her right hand. “ _But,_ we won’t be hasty about this. It’s up to the little wolf cub to make the next move. We will wait for him.”

“What if he doesn’t move?” El said quietly. “He might roll over and do what the White Dragon says.”

“His mother would never let him. Ambitious, that one, and very proud.” Ulla had never met Barbrey Ryswell Stark herself, but her reports from the north all agreed on that point. “Also, the boy’s no lackwit. He might take the White Dragon’s terms for now, but he won’t forget. Starks can hold a grudge like no one else between Dorne and the Wall, I promise you that.”

“And they’re already angry because of what happened to Lady Lyanna,” Quel interjected.

“ _Exactly._ Now, what would you do if you were in Rodrik Stark’s position?”

Neither of them answered immediately. Ulla had challenged her son, and later grandchildren, with puzzles and logic questions since they were old enough to understand her. _With varying success._ She’d given Dalt the chance to work with the Iron Holt smith, and then the men and women of the Driftwood, after seeing how fast he could put together the wooden jigsaw puzzles that she’d received from an Essos merchant in return for smoked salmon. Quel and El did better—and had learned to take time when answering questions such as these.

“I’d pay off my debts as fast as possible,” Quel replied. “As…as long as Stark owes money, the crown has power over him. If he doesn’t, then…then it’s hard for the King to order him around without the Lannisters or Hightowers or Martells worrying. And it’s…it’s hard for him to fight if he has debts, isn’t it? He can’t pay sellswords.”

“Do you think he’ll fight?”

“Yes,” El interjected. “He’ll think he can win in the winter.”

“Win what?”

Her granddaughter looked at her hands. “I…I don’t know, Grandmother.”

“Vengeance for his father?”

“You said that the Starks hold grudges for a long time,” Quel pointed out.

“If that’s the only reason, the boy’s a fool. What will he have learned from this incident?” She could see Yara leaning forward. Her seneschal was fascinated by the Wench grandchildren’s sharp wits, especially since she described her own brothers as “dolts” if asked about them.

“That the south isn’t good for Starks,” Quel said slowly. “His father, grandfather and great-grandfather all died there, and his aunt was abducted.”

“So what would he want, my love?”

“Separation from the…” El’s voice trailed off. “Independence?”

“He can’t.” Quel’s tone was disbelieving. “They have fewer people than we do now, the North, and they’re as poor as they were forty years ago.”

“That’s no different from before the Targaryens,” her granddaughter shot back. “And that’s still more people than Lorath.”

Dalt was blinking a little bit. _Dazzled, son? You should be._

“In any event, we _must remain vigilant._ “ Ulla’s tone of voice was clear. “Dalt, you’ve told me that things are…progressing at Driftwood?”

Her son nodded. “Yes, we’ve finally—“

“Not here.” She saw sheepishness flash across his face. _He never remembers._ The Driftwood Shop was as secure a location as any in the Iron Islands, but the rest of Pyke…she found it unbelievable that the Crown didn’t have little birds somewhere in her castle.

“Forgive me.”

“Try not to let it happen again. Quel, El, you’re welcome to join me when I speak with Urrigon Farwynd today. He’ll be here at seven bells.”

“Really?” Her grandson’s face lit up.

“Yes, I think you’re old enough now. Unless…?”

“I’ve no concerns,” Dalt said quietly. He’d very rarely sat in when Urri briefed his mother, having little head for the matters they discussed.

 _At their age, he’d best not._ El was nearly five-and-ten, and Quel already seven-and-ten. She couldn’t shield them forever, much as she might wish to.

+++

“My lady.”

Her solar was dead quiet as Urrigon Farwynd entered. The head of the Silent Seals, and the closest thing she had to a master of whispers, Joron’s youngest son had enormous green eyes, the colour of seaglass, and grey-black hair. There was something about him…she didn’t exactly know who his mother had been, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The whispers about the Farwynds were not the sort that were best dwelled on at night. Her former first mate had turned strange in his old age, she knew that.

“Urri.” She bowed her head, and her grandchildren followed suit.

“Well remet, Eldra, Quellon.” His voice was curiously rough. “Shall you be joining us of the mornings now?”

“On occasion,” Ulla replied. “You’ve things to share with me, I’d guess.”

“I do.” Urri sat on the table, his legs tucked under him. To their credit, neither of her grandchildren reacted.

“The wild wolf is dead, as I’m sure you know, and his son’s a beast of a different pelt. He’ll quit Winterfell Castle, but not his role.”

She frowned. “How?”

“Taxes owed to the Warden of the North, that he can claim without being at his family’s ancestral seat. The Crown shall receive the castle. He thinks to bind them to the consequences of his father’s spending, for the King offered to take the castle in payment, and the dragon has no more claims against the wolves’ purse. Brandon Stark has neglected his lands and keep, and the Lord Justice Eddard shall have to clean it all up, while young Rodrik walks away.”

“To where?” Quel asked quietly. “Rillwater Crossing?”

She almost scolded him, but restrained herself. It was a fair question.

“The young wolf’s still master of the Saltcross Canal, that stretches from the Saltspear to the White Knife, that his father built,” Farwynd answered softly. “He’s a countinghouse at the halfway point, at the little town they built there, and he’ll take it for his seat.”

“The canal doesn’t belong to Winterfell?” El asked.

“No, for ’tis property of the Starks themselves.”

“Let’s let him finish,” Ulla said firmly.

“Sorry, Grandmother,” they chorused.

A strange smile slipped across Urri’s face before he continued. “The Manderlys and Dustins are happy that Lord Eddard’s coming home, the other houses not so much. Arnolf Karstark doesn’t like the lad, nor does Walton Umber. The Boltons play their dice carefully, as ever afore. As well, Karstark’s heir will go to the Wall, as he was with Stark.”

 _The North has to be our chief point of interest for now._ “The other kingdoms, in brief?”

“The West continues as always, not well this past sixty years, in truth. The counting of the population continues for taxation, and it seems it’ll have declined again. The Lannisters of Lannisport are building up great flood-dikes along the Goldwater, to protect the centre of the city, since a Maester warned that they’re almost at the level of the sea. Lord Lannister of the Rock heard the same, did naught with it. His mother and grandfather have expelled a New Sept preacher from the village beneath the Rock, for heresy. Fishing is poor along towards Feastfires, and the Surf Coast, and the waves heavy.

“The Reach…the Hightowers are wroth after seeing Rhaegar’s get at the White Dragon’s coronation. The grain crops on the Mander are likely to fail again, I’m told, there’s ergot running wild in the wheat thereabouts, and it jumps just as easily to rye and oats. Dorne is quiet with Prince Oberyn away at King’s Landing. The East…ever busy, little worth mentioning save the murder of a girl of Dornish birth at Torrhensford. The Iron Cloaks fear another riot. In the Free Cities, Volantis has also had a bad harvest, and the Dothraki are approaching Pentos; war is expected, as I’d mentioned a sennight past. The Golden Company is engaged for Qohor, and I cannot say why yet. That is all for now, my lady.”

“And north of the Wall?”

“Our sailors report nothing.”

“Very well, we’ll speak of the North again.” She shifted in her wheelchair. “Lord Bolton?”

“Not onto us yet, and not likely to become so. He’s not as smart as he imagines himself, and that makes him careless. His badbrother is ever useful, and I’ve no other way into Winterfell.”

“The bastards?”

“One died of red cough, leaving six. The eldest is nearly a man grown, and knows not. I can send him to the Grey Cliffs, Last Hearth or White Harbour, depending on who’s snubbed.”

She stroked her chin. “Manderly, and make it clear what you’ve done.”

“My lady?”

“He’s no good to us hidden. Force Eddard to confront him, and young Rodrik. What of Karstark?”

“Furious, of course. Not a crafty man in anyone’s imagination. An easy tool for cutting, but as easily turned against the holder.”

“Better than his nephew, at any rate. Karstark ships for the Wall?”

“Indeed.”

“It would be best if he were not encumbered by the black. Make that known.”

“It shall be done.”

“Good. That’s all.”

After Urri left, she turned to her grandchildren. “You get one question each, if you wish it.”

El went first. “Who are the bastards?”

“Brandon Stark’s baseborn children. There are six living. One of them is Quel’s age, and kin to the Flints of Flint’s Finger. That makes him dangerous to Rodrik Stark. Quel?”

Her grandson took a moment. “I know what a goodbrother or Goodbrother is, but…is Bolton’s badbrother his lady wife’s disgruntled kin?”

“No.”

“Then—“

“I said one question. You see your mistake?”

He sighed. “I should’ve asked what his badbrother was.”

“Yes. Don’t let me answer just yes or no. I’ve got to be going over to the citadel now. Quel, you’re ready for your voyage?”

Her grandson nodded—not proudly, she’d taught him not to show more emotion than needed. He’d be crew on a salmon-fishing knarr, bound for the outer edges of the Iron Islands’ maritime territory.

“Good lad. Sail safe.”

In contrast to Urri’s visit, there was nothing secretive about Ulla as she made her way towards the Lordsport Citadel on her garron, four members of the Red Fist flanking her.

She could remember when Pyke was a grim and sparsely populated land, only a handful of hamlets in the interior. These days, there was scarcely a wild space on the island, with groves of soldier pines, glasshouses and workshops taking up the space between compact villages. The island’s population had more than tripled in her lifetime, and been the Storm God’s own to manage.

The Citadel was the former seat of House Botley, a great wattle-and-daub structure overlooking the bustling city, given over to teaching and learning since the end of the last Blackfyre Rebellion. Passing under the gate, she smiled to think of how things had changed. When she’d been born, the Citadel had been at the edge of Lordsport; it was now at the centre.

One of the Fist helped her into her wheelchair, and pushed her into the central keep. She was a frequent visitor, and the young halfmaesters in training nodded respectfully, without showing any surprise, as they darted through the dark corridors.

“My lady.”

She looked up to see Rodrik Slatepool, her master of learning, fall in beside her.

“Rodrik. How goes it?”

“All well at the moment. We’re approaching examinations, so there’s more activity than usual.”

“I noticed,” she remarked drily.

They exchanged no more words until they reached an ordinary-seeming door, which led to a long corridor. Pushing it open, Slatepool stood aside as the Fist pushed her chair through, and then took it himself. Very few people were allowed inside. _With reason._

An entire wing of rooms had been reserved for the Driftwood Shop. Unlike the candle-lit corridors outside, this one was lit with glasswork pipes, each with a bright blue flame. _Our greatest secret that the Silent Seals don’t keep._ Someday, every house on the islands would use what was being created her, she was sure of it. But not today, not while they didn’t have their own supply of gas. The Essosi oil that the Crown used was plentiful in the green lands, even if they were too foolish to really make full use of it. The ironmen had none at all, unless it was at the bottom of the sea.

The corridor ended in a steel door, and Slatepool had to hit it with a hammer in order for someone on the inside to open it up, the door shining silently inward, revealing a bright, red room within. The very heart of the Shop.

“My lady.” Qarl Rediron nodded deeply, standing up from his bench. The other seven working in the room did the same, with one young woman putting down what looked like a pipe. _odd._

“Qarl. How goes it?”

“Very well.” The young man lifted a strange piece of ironwork from the bench. “We made progress on this this week. The exfilter for the earthenware stomach.”

She tilted her head to one side.

“It lets us flare off the gas, my lady,” another man explained, pulling off heavy leather gloves. “We’ve been able to get a more consistent flow with this.”

“I see. Enough to keep a lamp burning, for instance?”

Qarl shook his head sorrowfully. “I fear not, my lady. We’re still losing too much at the seal, but we’re getting much closer. Perhaps another turn of the moon, and that part will be working.”

“Good. Other pieces?”

“The ceramics room has begun to use fragments of dragon glass, and the pipes they’re producing shatter at just a third of the rate.”

“And what’s that?” She pointed at the pipe that the young woman had put down.

“My lady?”

“Bit of an unusual pipe, isn’t it?”

“I…yes. Gisella, explain what you’re working on.”

“Yes, of course.” The young woman was thin, but had surprisingly large, muscular hands, along with thick black eyebrows and a square jaw. “We’ve wanted to see if steel pipes were less likely to lose gas.”

“Do we have enough steel to do that?”

“We could at the point where it’s removed from the earthenware stomach and pumped into buildings, my lady. The longer pipes would still be ceramic.”

“Hmmm.” Steel was dear, even on Pyke, and she was reluctant to use up more of it that needed. “Don’t waste anything, I suppose, but best of luck. And the cart?”

“Ah, yes.” Qarl walked over to a cart situated in the middle of the room, a giant ironwork piece mounted within, with a leather belt connecting it to the wheels through a hole in the floor. “We’ve had little luck so far…you said that it was an Essosi treatise, correct?”

“Indeed.”

“I see. We can get the gas to fire within, but not over a long period of time. The cart jerks forward, and then stops. The problem is getting it to flow in.”

“Right.” She sighed. The book that this project was based on was YiTish, and was suspected of being a prank. Nevertheless, it was considered worth trying, given the potential payoff. “Anything else?”

By the time she left, her head was shaking a little. The Driftwood had been productive in matters of new steelsmithing and the like, but their long range projects were…slow. And expensive. Very expensive.

And with Brandon Stark dead, she was running out of time.


	8. Daeron IV

_If asked for the most notable developments of the late 3rd century, most historians would at least mention the advent of the canal in Westeros. While the idea was far from unfamiliar to the Sunset lands—Westerosi traveled frequently to Braavos, and canals were used in Yi Ti as far back as the Age of Heroes—the long, straight canals of King Jaehaerys’ reign, through which three or four wherries could pass abreast, were unheard of._

_The first spades of earth turned were for the Harrenton Canal, connecting the God’s Eye—and thus, the Blackwater Rush—to the Trident at Torrhensford, which received its charter in 265. A short channel, the Harrenton paid for itself within five years of its opening in 272, to the surprise of many. By this time, Prince Aerys had already given approval to a far more ambitious project: a canal connecting the Mander to the Blackwater Rush. It was here that the first locks were built, enabling boats to be lifted and lowered by several hundred feet. At the same time, the Mander itself was widened and dredged at Tumbleton. From the day it was opened, one could go by boat from the Twins to the Shield Islands without ever portaging or sailing on sea. The cost of transporting goods fell drastically, contributing to rapid population growth in the chartered towns—soon to be cities—of the Trident and Harrenmarch._

_First known as the Stonewater, the canal acquired the name of the Old Cut when the last, and best known, of the Jaehaeryan canals was planned out. The New Cut, which runs from the shores of the Bite to Seagard, on Ironman’s Bay, connecting the east and west coasts, was the most difficult engineering project ever undertaken in Westeros to that point. Thousands of tons of earth were moved over the course of nine years’ construction, most going to form huge berms to protect the surrounding farmland from flooding. It marked the only time in his long reign that the King borrowed from the Iron Bank of Braavos—and that with much unease. Canals were costly, and the Old Cut had nearly exhausted the royal treasury._

_It was worth the investment. Opening in 289, the canal hosted 36 passing ships per day within a few years, rising to 50 by the time of King Jaehaerys’ death. For the first time, the untapped fishing grounds of the Sunset Sea, and the rich pine forests of the western North were opened up to Essosi vessels and markets—not to mention those closer to home: nearly a third of the ships that passed through the New Cut in 298 were from the Iron Islands._

_It was seen as foolish when, in 292, Lord Brandon Stark began the construction of yet another canal, the Saltcross. Connecting the headwaters of the Fever River to the White Knife, just south of White Harbour, it shortened the travel time to the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point by several days for Essosi-bound ships. Stark’s rivals claimed that he had ordered the canal built as a favour to his wife’s house, the Ryswells, whose lands were half a day’s sailing from the mouth of the Fever._

The gloom around them could have been cut with a knife.

Sensing that the crypts of Winterfell were far from his place, Daeron walked well behind Eddard and Lyarra Stark, just close enough to read the names on the tombs that he passed. _Barthogan…Donnor…Willem…_ they were getting closer to the newest ones.

“It’s really quite something.”

He turned to Ashara Dayne, who was keeping pace with him. “Aye.”

“I’d never been down here before until a sennight ago.” Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the small details on the tombs. “Ned and I were married at Summerhall, and then we were so long at Storm’s End. I only came here for Lady Lyarra’s funeral.”

“She lived with you, didn’t she?”

“After Lyanna was finished with her halfmaester’s training, yes. She traveled south to Dorne when Lya was working there, then came back here when they went up to Eastlock. She practically raised little Lyarra, you know, for the first few years.”

“I can imagine. And I hadn’t asked…Mors isn’t here?”

“He joined the Royal Army, finally. It’s all he’s ever talked about.” She smiled a little, but he could see sadness in her eyes. “He’s at Harrenhal.”

“He’ll do well, I think.” He’d met Mors Stark only briefly: a muscular boy of five-and-ten, with Stark hair and Dayne eyes. “They’re fairly welcoming, believe it or not.”

“The Army?”

“Yes. They all stick together pretty closely.” His cousins on his father’s side had enjoyed their army service, coming back much more settled and even-tempered in the end.

They stopped before the last few tombs.

 _Speaking of Mors—_ Rickard Stark’s granite statue resembled his grandson strongly; his face had been fairly round, compared to Eddard’s, and the hands that gripped the iron sword on his lap were heavily muscled. The older Lyarra Stark had been carved from a much darker shade of stone. She resembled Eddard and the living Lyarra much more closely.

The last tomb didn’t have a statue, just a name. _I can’t believe he’s…there._ Brandon Stark had been intensely, drunkenly _alive_ at King’s Landing, and now he…wasn’t. _If his shade walks these cold halls, does it still have the wounds that Jaehaerea gave him? Or Uncle Daeron?_

Turning, Daeron saw a tear track down Lyarra’s cheek as she traced her grandmother’s face with her right hand. Eddard was even more sombre than usual. Stepping back to give them space, he felt a shiver run up his spine. He’d nearly run into Lord Rickard’s tomb.

_If you’re looking at me now, Lord Stark, know that I fought side by side with your granddaughter—albeit against your son._

After a few moments, they left, as though by an unspoken signal. Lyarra and Ashara Dayne Stark walked ahead, enabling Daeron to fall in beside Eddard. “’Twas an honour to visit this place, Lord Justice.”

“No Targaryen’s set foot down here since Queen Alysanne.” The other man sighed heavily. “And I hadn’t for a very long time.”

“Twenty-five years since you lived here, no?”

“Aye, and no one will let me forget it.” Stark scrubbed his face. “The Manderlys and Dustins are close, but…the other houses are unhappy with how things turned out, your Grace.”

“Just Daeron, please.”

“Then it’s just Ned.” They emerged into the weak sunlight.

“Agreed.” Looking off to his right, Daeron could see Aegraxes playfully head butting Melys, who growled warningly. The two wyverns had adapted surprisingly well to the Northern cold.

Eddard— _Ned—_ followed his glance. “I can’t believe she’s a wyvern rider.”

“And a good one.” After just a sennight of learning, Lyarra had been able to mount Melys with ease, and they’d flown to Dragonstone several times before beginning the long trip north, bundles of medicines and tools strapped to each wyvern’s side.

“Lyanna was half-centaur when she rode, I imagine that helped.”

“It should, yes.” Daeron caught himself yawning. “Forgive me, this has been a long day.” They’d set out from the Red Keep just past dawn, following the Trident and then the Green Fork northwards to Winterfell. Originally planning to set down at the Crossing, where Lyarra had grown up, they’d been able to push across the Neck thanks to the winds. _Tomorrow will be….difficult, I think._ They’d be back at the Twins shortly after dark if all went well, after delivering supplies to Castle Black and….visiting Eastwatch.

“How’s the castle faring thus far?”

Ned Stark shook his head slowly. “My brother squandered nearly everything of worth that we had here. Even with the crown taking possession of the castle as payment…I’ve had to let nearly a third of the servants go.”

Daeron winced. “That’s not so good.”

“Aye. I provided them recommendations for service at White Harbour and Eastlock, but…most were pretty unhappy. I would’ve needed to let more go if my nephew hadn’t taken a number with him.”

“Ah.” Rodrik Stark and his family had left Winterfell a day before his uncle had arrived, relocating to Saltlock, the small town at the middle of the Saltcross canal. Winterfell was thus unusually quiet, with most of the Warden’s business being conducted from a small manse in the hills overlooking the Bite. “Will things improve over time?”

“I hope,” Stark sighed. “The timber stocks are still quite full, and at least Brandon didn’t neglect the glass gardens. The navy and the White Harbour shipwrights will buy as many soldier pines as we can sell, but…this castle’s meant to be maintained by the taxes owed to the Warden of the North, and Rodrik took nearly two-thirds with him.”

Daeron’s eyes widened. “That’s unhelpful.”

“Aye. Your grandmother and uncles thought it was foolish, but…he was able to walk away from nearly all of my brother’s debts, seeing as the Crown bought them up, and then took Winterfell in payment. And the manse at Saltlock isn’t expensive to maintain.”

“But he’s got no land.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

After a rather quiet dinner, in which he was able to meet the younger Stark children—Allyria looked almost exactly like her mother, and Beron had a mischievous air that reminded him intensely of Matarys—he turned in early, his head still spinning from the long day.

How long Ned Stark could hold onto Winterfell, he had absolutely no idea. The Manderlys had wanted him appointed, as had Willem Dustin and Jeor Mormont, but the other houses were cold at best, hostile at worst. Rodrik Stark, still unbetrothed at just fourteen, had family links to the Ryswells, a shared grievance with the Karstarks, as Lord Arnolf’s heir had been sent to the Wall, and a sister set to marry Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. _And Lord Umber’s son will need a bride soon as well._ There were just too many pieces in play.

+++

They were still an hour south when the Wall first emerged from the thick fog hanging over House Umber’s lands, and Daeron felt his jaw drop.

 _I thought the Old Cut was impressive, or the Princes’ Sept in Harroway, but this…_ he could scarcely believe that the massive _thing_ looming over the wooded hills of the eastern Gift was manmade. _Or not. They say there were giants who built alongside the first Starks._

The Gift itself was a sharp contrast with the rest of the North. The thralls who’d left the Iron Islands behind during the Blackfyre War had settled here, granted the land by his great-great-grandfather, and he could see dozens of small villages scattered throughout the woods. To the east, where the Gift flattened into broad, rolling plains, there were plumes of smoke rising from what appeared to be much larger towns. _The finest wool in Westeros is from here, as I recall._

As they drew closer, he could see small, black shapes huddled against the foot of the Wall. _The castles._ One of them had faint trails of smoke rising from its roof, which had to be Castle Black. His grandfather had sent thousands of Valemen and Stormlanders to the Wall forty years ago, swelling the Watch’s numbers for a time. Now, only four castles were kept open—the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, the Long Barrow, and Eastwatch.

Cold winds whipped down from the Wall as they descended in front of Castle Black’s main building, and he could see black brothers running back and forth. Aegraxes hissed with irritation as his feet came down on the late summer snow.

“Sers.”

He looked up to see a lean man approaching them, a patch over one eye. “You’re a bit early.”

Swinging himself down from Aegraxes, Daeron grimaced; one of his legs had cramped a bit. “Made good time.” He pulled off his helmet, and the man blanched.

“Your Grace, forgive me, I didn't—“

“It’s no trouble. How’d you know?”

“Your eyes, Your Grace.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Eon Hunter.”

 _The Lord Commander._ The man before him had been Ronnel Arryn’s squire, and knelt in surrender before Daeron’s grandfather at Upcliffe on the day the last Blackfyre banners fell. “Well met. I am Daeron son of Elaena, and this…this is Lyarra Stark.”

The man’s remaining eye widened briefly. “I…I see. You’ll be wishing to speak with Maester Aemon, then?”

 _Idiot! You forgot about him!_ “Certainly. We’ve deliveries to make as well, Lord Commander, of medicine mostly.”

“Then you’ll be bringing them to him. Need you a hand?”

“Just directions.” Daeron untied one of the burlap bags from Aegraxes’ back, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

“The last tower on the left, at the top.” Hunter nodded curtly, leaving the two of them to their work.

“That one hasn’t forgotten the war,” Lyarra murmured as she looped Melys’ reins around a hitching post.

“I wouldn’t have either.” Looking over her shoulder, Daeron could see several brothers of the Watch staring at them: many of them grey-bearded. “None of them have.”

“Are we safe here?”

“Yes.” As Lyarra picked up the last sack, they set off. “The freed folk of the Gift are very loyal to Grandfather, and they outnumber the Watch over ten to one. No one here’s ever dared lay their hands on a wyvern courier.”

The inside of the maester’s tower smelled of wet ashes, and Daeron couldn’t help but hold his breath. _This place needs a good cleaning._ He could swear he heard something scurrying on the stairs, which he pushed out of his mind as he rapped gently on the door at the top.

“Maester Aemon?”

“Enter.”

The voice was thin, almost weak, but somehow still resolute. Balancing one of the sacks on his hip, Daeron opened the door.

The maester sitting by the fire was easily the oldest man he’d ever set his eyes on, his hair nearly all gone. _Over a hundred, he’d be._

 _“_ Who’s there?” He turned towards them, his white eyes searching.

“Daeron, of the House Targaryen, Lyarra of the House Stark. We’ve medicines for you?”

“Daeron…” The man rose slowly, his gnarled hand wrapping around a blackthorn cane. “I think…yes, you’re Elaena’s son, aren’t you? She came here once when she was carrying you below her heart.”

Daeron’s eyes widened. “She did?”

“Oh yes. My eyes were still clear then, and you kicked rather hard when she laid my hand on her belly. Your father was with her that day, too, all in his black and purple. A good man, I was sorry to hear of your loss.”

The younger prince felt a stinging in his eyes. “I…thank you. He’s much missed.”

The ancient maester shuffled forward, his right hand reaching out towards Daeron’s face. He almost jumped back, only to realise that Aemon had no other way of knowing more than his voice. The thin fingers traced over his eyebrows, then his nose and lips.

“You’ve a much rounder face than your mother’s, I think. More like Valarr. And your hair?”

“My father’s, Maester. Sandy brown.”

“I knew a Daeron Targaryen with sandy-brown hair once. My brother.” Aemon sighed. “And Lyarra. Your name’s one I’ve heard often.”

The girl remained still as his hand traced the outlines of her face. “Yes…you’d look quite a bit like your father and grandmother then, little though you may want to.”

“I’ve my mother’s hair,” Lyarra added quietly.

“Ah so.”

“You met him, then?”

“Rhaegar flew here about a year before you were born, and crossed the Wall before returning directly south again, not even saying goodbye. He was a gentle boy, when I knew him.” The blind maester turned to the fire again. “Kind, even. And then he did what he did. I’ve never fully understood.”

“Maester…” Images from Daeron’s dream played out across the back of his eyes. “You said that he flew directly south from the Wall?”

“Indeed, I didn’t see him after that.”

“Do you think something…happened to him? Across the Wall? Something that changed him?”

Aemon was silent for a moment. “I…there are things in the True North, my boy, that you do not find in the realms your grandfather rules over. Wargs, for instance.”

“That’s not…”

“It’s no myth, I promise you that. But wargs never take the skin of men to wear. And…they said at his trial, that he spoke of naught but destiny when he did speak. He was ever so, Daeron. Rhaegar wasn’t violent when I knew him, but…he didn’t _change._ It was the same man who did the two things, even if I cannot say why.”

“We’re going to…to visit him,” Lyarra said quietly.

Aemon fell silent for a moment. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I can’t just never meet my father.”

The ancient man nodded. “I…yes, I understand. I’d trade every day I had left, few though they might be, to see mine again, stern though he might be. It’s strange, though. Outliving him, and then my brother, and then my brother’s children.”

“Has Rhaegar ever…come here? To see you?”

“He was here a moon’s turn back, after they selected the new commander for Eastwatch. I’ve never actually spoken to, nor spent time with him, not since before you were born, Lyarra. What he did…it would be difficult for me to fully forgive it. The pain he caused Rhaella, and his father, turning his blade on his own cousin, murdering your grandfather Stark…he’s asked to see me several times since he’s come here, and I’ve refused every time. It was at my request that he was sent to Eastwatch.”

“Really?” Lyarra’s eyes widened.

“Really. Eon was already Lord Commander then, and he respected my wishes enough to grant me that. Over fifty years of service to the Watch brought its privileges.”

_Gods…fifty years up here? I’d freeze._

“You plan to stay there overnight, then?”

“We’ll fly back south afterwards,” Daeron shook his head. “To the Twins.”

“You need to be going then,” Aemon rasped.

“Your Grace.”

 _Another Valeman._ Yohn Royce had been captured at Firbough Sept, he knew, and spent far longer on the Wall than Eon Hunter. _Captured by Lord Rickard, now that I come to think of it. He’s seen a lot of history._

“Ser Yohn.” Daeron dipped his head. “We bring supplies.”

“Really?” The older man’s thick eyebrows raised. “They usually come to us via Castle Black, your Grace.”

“I came to speak with…with your commander.” Lyarra cast back her hood, and Royce sucked in his breath upon seeing her.

“I…Lady Stark?”

“That’s my mother’s title.” Lyarra’s voice was shaky, but still firm at its core. “I’m here to see my father, Ser Royce.”

“I…very well. The lads’ll get the sacks unloaded, follow me.”

Lyarra stood stock still for a moment, before shaking whatever had plagu3d her off and following the older man.

“Atre you all right?”

“Not really.” He could see her biting her lip. “I…I cant believe I did this, I shouldn’t have—“

“Do you want to just go?”

“No. I…I have to see him. Just once.” She steeled herself as they caught up to Royce. “Just once.”

Eastwatch only had one large building, which was still cold inside. As with Castle Black, the brothers here were older, and Daeron could hear snatches of Vale accents as he followed Royce down a narrow corridor.

The door at the end was wrought from weirwood: almost purely white, it had a black raven painted at the centre. Or a crow.

Royce knocked on it, hard.

“Commander? You’ve…you’ve visitors. From the south.”

“Send them in.”

Daeron felt a shiver go up his back as he reached for the door handle. _The same voice._ If he’d had any doubts about the dragon dreams, they were very much gone.

Looking at Lyarra, and unable to read the expression on her face, he opened it.

The room was small, and spare. The man at the desk, looking over a heap of browning parchment, was taller than Daeron, with the classic Targaryen white hair. _He got nothing from the Hightowers, I see._ As he looked up, Daeron could see that his eyes were Valyrian purple—and wide with shock.

“Ly…Lyarra?”

His voice was soft, but Daeron could sense the girl at his side jerk back as Rhaegar Hightower rose to his feet.

“Do not.”

It was Iron Cloak Silas Baker’s voice that escaped Daeron’s lips, firm and unyielding. The Night’s Watchman stayed where he was, his hands held up.

“Forgive me…Daeron, isn’t it?”

“Aye. A cursed name, it seems. I have one eye, my uncle one hand.”

To his surprise, Rhaegar didn’t flinch. “Indeed. Lyarra…I hadn’t realised you were coming, forgive me.”

“Forgiving is the last thing I can do.” She had found her voice at last.

“Then why..”

The girl laughed harshly. “Is that what you expected? Me to forgive what you did to my mother?”

“I…I should have explained things to Lyanna better, that she was the ice to my fire, the—“

“It doesn’t matter what you didn’t do. It matters what you did.”

“Your grandfather, you mean? I tried to explain to him, with letters, but…”

“Wait,” Daeron blurted. “Letters?”

“I wrote to Lord Rickard to request a meeting with his daughter, yes,” Rhaegar murmured. His eyes hadn’t left Lyarra once.

“And his answer?”

“None.”

Shock rippled through Lyarra’s face. “And you…what? You didn’t fly to Winterfell?”

“I’d been there already, on my way to Castle Black.” The former heir to the Hightower sighed. “It was…critically important that it go ahead, our marr—“

“If you call that a marriage,” Lyarra hissed, “you will not live to see the sunset, _Father,_ I promise you.”

“It was consumm—“

“Were you always this foolish?” Daeron interjected as he grabbed Lyarra’s arm before she could reach for one of her knives. “Or has the Wall taken your wits, cousin?”

“Sharp-tongued as your mother.” Rhaegar smiled sadly. “She understood me, you know, much better than most of my mother’s family. When I saw the signs in the old books, about what awaits in the True North.”

“A sword, you mean?”

“Dark Sister was a valuable gift, yes—I suppose someone has it now?”

“Uncle Daeron’s daughter. He took it in payment for his hand.”

“I tried to explain to him, you know. If we could’ve spoken, he might’ve taken our side.”

“I doubt it,” Lyarra muttered.“Who gifted Dark Sister to you?”

“Brynden Rivers.”

Daeron tipped his head to one side. “You…I…you found his body?”

“His living body.”

Lyarra laughed harshly. “You’re deluded.”

“No!” A mad light shone from Rhaegar’s eyes, and Daeron felt his hand drifting towards his sap again. “He was in front of me, as surely as you are now, and just as real.”

Lyarra’s jaw tensed up.

“Daughter…you remind me of her a lot. If…if you stay here, I can show you. You were raised in the faith of the Old Gods, you’ll understand.”

“Never in the Seven Hells. I’ve seen your face. That’s enough.” She turned to go.

“I waited fourteen years!” A note of desperation broke through Rhaegar’s voice. “Imagining what you were like, what you were doing…please, don’t leave…”

Lyarra left without a glance back. As Daeron followed, he saw the Watchman sink back into his chair, his hand over his eyes.

Yohn Royce was waiting for them in the courtyard, as Lyarra began saddling Melys.

“Good visit?”

“No.” Lyarra said nothing further, so Daeron stepped forward.

“I’m sorry, she’s…not happy with any of this.”

“I wouldn’t be, either.” Royce shook his head. “I took a knight’s vows, your Grace, and…what he did was far from knightly.”

“How do you serve him?”

“He took the Black, your Grace. Whatever you’ve done before…it don’t matter anymore. We only have one another here.”

“Aye.” Daeron sighed. “I think we’ll be leaving now.”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “For Castle Black?”

“The Twins, we can make it by nightfall if we leave now.”

“Be aware, then,” the old Valeman muttered. “The Shadow Tower sent word of a great storm gathering out t’ sea, and those beasts of yours aren’t so big against a wind off Ironman’s Bay.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The other man nodded curtly. “If you’re after thanking me, the freedmen down in Saltsheaves Town could use another glass garden. That’s half our greens, in the winter.”

“I’ll tell the Hand.” Glass gardens weren’t cheap, but the crown had a fair bit of coin saved up, and it was easier than shipping supplies to Eastwatch.

_Although glass isn’t easy to put on shipboard._

They were within sight of Last Hearth when he noticed clouds gathering, far off to the west.

“Lyarra!” He had to shout nearly at the top of his lungs.

She’d been silent since they took off, but turned to follow his hand. “What?”

“You heard me talking to Royce? There’s a storm brewing off to sea.”

“Do we need to put down?”

“Not yet!” He didn’t quite trust the Umbers: if they could get further south—towards Winterfell, White Harbour, even Barrowton—all would be well, but Last Hearth might very well be leaning towards Rodrik.

 _Wait…this isn’t right._ There were mountains between them and the sea. _How are we seeing that storm already?_

“Tack eastward!”

“What?”

“East! I don’t want to be close to whatever that is!”

With a sharp tug on the reins, Aegraxes banked to his left, Melys following them soon afterwards. Below them, the Last River snaked its way towards the Shivering Sea; he could see tiny boats scattered across its surface.

“Thought you said it was out to sea!” Lyarra shouted, her hair whipping into her face. _The knot must’ve come loose._

“That’s what he said! Must’ve come inland!” _Bloody hell._ He hoped the mountain clansfolk were safe indoors.

The wind began to die down as they crossed into the Lonely Hills, and he hoped that it was over.

+++

The rest of the flight was uneventful, until White Harbour, as the sun began to redden.

As they passed over the city, they were hit by a sudden, hard gust of wind out of the west. Daeron had to hold onto Aegraxes’ spines especially tight, and could hear the wyvern rumbling with irritation.

Lyarra shouted something.

“What?”

“Rain!”

Looking westward, he cursed. Storm clouds were beginning to build on the horizon, off towards where he could just barely see the blue line of the Saltspear.Sheets of rain were beginning to fall in the distance.

Beneath, a thin, straight line, which he knew to be Barndon Stark’s canal, cut through the hills.

“East again!”

“What?”

“EAST!” He pointed frantically to the left, and the girl seemed to hear, following Aegraxes as they cut eastward again.

 _This cant be the same damn storm, can it?_ They were hundreds of leagues south of the Umbers’ lands by this point, and winds weren’t fast enough to blow any cloud as quickly as a flying wyvern. _Must just be foul weather on the sea today. As long as we can tack westward once we cross the Sisters._ They could land at Breakwater Keep, home of the northernmost outpost of the Royal Navy, if they absolutely had to.

As they passed the coastline, his brow furrowed. There were dozens of ships standing into White Harbour now. He recognised a few flags—the dragon of the Kingdom of the East, the Mallister eagle, even the Wynches’ bloody moon. _Are they going up the Saltcross? Why?_

“What’s going on down there?” Lyarra shouted.

“Don't know!”

 _Maybe the storm’s crossing the Neck?_ He’d never heard of ever the harshest winter storms doing so, but it would make sense for the ships to be seeking the nearest port if that were the case. _If it is, this is going to be difficult._

The winds died down a bit as they flew deeper and deeper into the Bite, but Daeron found himself shaking his head. _Something’s wrong._ The Bite should’ve been packed with ships of all sizes, coming and going from the New Cut. Instead, there was scarcely a vessel to be seen on its deep grey waters.

“Daeron!”

“What?” He could see clouds in the west again.

“We have to turn!”

 _She’s right._ At this rate, they’d end up near the Mountains of the Moon within the hour. He pulled hard, Aegraxes turning reluctantly.

“What the fuck?”

Lyarra pointed forward. In the distance, along the dark shore of Greenmarch, he could see a black mass.

“What?”

“That’s Eastlock!”

“So?” The wind was gathering again, and he was almost screaming himself hoarse.

“What…ships…”

_Those are all ships?_

They began to descend, trying to get beneath the now-howling wind. As they approached the coast, he could begin to make out the port of Eastlock, one of the largest cities of his grandfather’s realm—and the mass of ships, all tied together, crowding the harbour.

“Canal!”

 _Huh?_ Following Lyarra’s finger, he caught his breath. The New Cut was absolutely full of ships as well, rendered completely impassable.

_Father above…they’re coming from the west…escaping Ironman’s Bay?_

_“Stay low!”_ He didn’t know if Lyarra heard him, and was too busy trying to focus Aegraxes, who was beginning to balk in response to the wind. The Twins was at the middle of Greenmarch, and he didn’t know if they were going to make it at this rate.

The two wyverns shot over the centre of Eastlock, which was utterly deserted. He could see windows boarded over, and doors locked shut, as they began to follow the New Cut westward. He could hear Aegraxes huffing as the winds began to pick up again, howling over the roofs of the walled market towns that lined the Cut. _He can’t keep this up much longer, and Melys…Lyarra hasn’t been doing this as long as I have._

The sky was beginning to go black when he saw the towers of the Twins, stretching over the Green Fork a mile northward of the point where the Cut crossed the river. Waterford, the city at the junction of the two, could barely be seen for all the ship masts crowded into its docks. As they banked to the right, he realised that this city, too, was utterly deserted. _What in the Seven Hells is_ happening?

“Western side!”

Lyarra began to descend, Melys clearly beginning to tire, as they approached House Frey’s seat. He could see a few men on the battlements, running back and forth, and was beginning to lose his grip on Aegraxes’ spines. The wind had picked up again, and was trying to knock him into the Green Fork.

They nearly crashed, barely making it over the parapet before they came down heavily in the tiltyard. Daeron was almost flung from his saddle as Aegraxes landed, only saved by the heavy straps that kept his feet attached. He could hear the wyvern panting as he detached the straps, nearly falling off once they were loose.

“Your Grace! Lyarra!”

Looking up, he saw a tall woman running towards them, followed by two boys and a man about Daeron’s mother’s age.

“My…milady?”

Lyarra collapsed into Tyta Frey’s arms as the older woman undid the last strap on her foot, which seemed to have been stuck. Daeron had sunk to the ground, his legs weak after hours of flying, and one of the boys hoisted him upright.

“Are you well, your grace?” He had a narrow face, with golden-brown hair and blue-green eyes,

“Yes…just…dizzy. You’re…forgive me, we haven’t met.”

“Stevron Frey, your grace. Here.” The boy guided him to a bench at the edge of the tiltyard, barking at a servant to fetch water.

“My…wyvern…”

“He’ll wait, your grace.” Looking up, Daeron saw that the Frey boy was right: Aegraxes was clearly exhausted.

“I’ve…heard the name Stevron.”

“My great-grandfather. Lady Tyta’s father.” The boy sat beside him, his eyes darting warily up and down Daeron’s frame, as though expecting him to collapse at any moment. “Why’d you fly in this weather?”

“It…was fine when we left this morning.” Daeron accepted the waterskin that he was offered, gulping deeply. “From Winterfell, then the wall.”

“This is one of the worst storms in a century, your grace.” Stevron sighed heavily. “Hadn’t even made landfall yet.”

“We saw…Eastlock’s full of ships.” He was regaining his breath.

“Aye. They all made for port, and Lord Mallister’s fleet is all at Westlock, across the march. Seagard’s likely to get hit very, very hard.”

“I need to see to Aegraxes.”

Stevron frowned. “Who—oh, your wyvern. Certainly. _Slowly,_ now.” He stood close to Daeron as the prince rose to his feet.

“You sound like a maester.”

“I’m leaving for Oldtown in a sennight, as it happens.” Aegraxes barely had the energy to lift his head when Daeron approached him, finally stirring himself after a few taps with the crop. “There’s room thereabouts, your grace, by the wagonhouse. Just not by the stables, he’ll spook the horses.” Stevron’s hand fisted up.

“Do you want to touch him?” Daeron beckoned him forward. Stevron’s eyes widened, and the boy stepped up, his hands tracing along Aegraxes’ shoulder.

“He’s…quite something.”

“Indeed, and very young.” To his surprise, Lyanna Stark had already led Melys over to the space by the wagonhouse; the siblings sniffed at one another before closing their eyes. Lyarra’s mother removed the saddle as Daeron began to do the same.

“That’s…unusual, my lady.”

“That she’ll be this close to me?” Lyarra had clearly inherited her piercing gaze.

“Yes. I suppose…she might know that you’re family. My father was always able to be close to Aerea after I was born. She could smell his blood and my mother’s in me.”

“You met Rhaegar.”

“Yes.” Finishing the unsaddling, they began to walk back towards the main keep. The sky was now pitch black.

“Dont suppose I should care how he’s doing, but…I’m a bit curious.”

“He’s mad,” Daeron said bluntly. “Barking mad, I’d say. He thinks that he met Bloodraven beyond the Wall, when he…got Dark Sister.”

“That fucking sword.” Lyanna was silent for a moment as they entered the keep. The Twins were kept quite warm, and Daeron could feel his energy draining away. “He killed Ethan Glover with it. My personal guard. On that day.”

He could only nod quietly.

“And cut off your uncle’s hand. I’dve killed him myself, Watch brother or no, if I thought it wouldn’t deprive Lyarra of her mother.”

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

She smiled a bit as they began to climb the stairs. “There’s a room next to our personal apartments, kept for guests. It’s yours for however long you’re here. We’ll eat shortly, I think.”

“We…may have to give it a day. I will, anyway.”

“Lya’s staying, I think. Your great-grandfather decided to give her land upon his death, and we need to understand what she’s to do. You two were so busy with her wyvern that I didn’t get to speak with her about it. And the weather’s too bad for you to be flying off so quickly, anyways. This storm might be here a few days.”

“A few…that’ll be bad.”

“Aye.”


	9. Ulla II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one--but you'll see the outcome next chapter, as the storm makes landfall in the westerlands.

_Up until the Fifth Blackfyre War, Westerosi seeking an education had few options but the Citadel in Oldtown, or the Starry Sept for those intending to join the Faith. The number of Maesters in Westeros numbered under a thousand, with a scattering of halfmaesters (not an official degree at that time) and other partially educated men in the larger towns and cities._

_With many castles in his hands after the fall of Aemon Blackfyre, Jaehaerys II gave several over to the training of more Maesters, stewards and bonesetters. The first built in the Kingdom of the East was Rosby Citadel, in 262, which accepted women as well as men, followed by Storm’s End in 269 and Redfort in 276. Little known to greenlanders, Ulla Wynch did so as well, turning the old seat of House Botley into the Lordsport Citadel. Across the East, village after village and town after town built village schools with the Crown’s coin, where lessons were taught by septons of the New Sept and halfmaesters._

_While very few Westerosi went on to the citadels, the boom of the 270s, when Harroway, Steffonsbridge, Torrhensford and Maidenpool outgrew King’s Landing, can be traced to King Jaehaerys’ decision. The great mercantile families of the Trident, Redmarch and Harrenmarch were themselves of humble origin, and their companies were staffed by small folk who had learned their letters and numbers in the village schools, and the arts of ledger-keeping, trade, and draughting for new buildings in the citadels. An enormously expensive venture for the Crown, the schools had paid off._

_The last citadel opened in King Jaehaerys’ reign was Riverrun Citadel, in 292, located in the old seat of the deposed House Tully. Unlike thirty years before, no one called it a waste of coin._

_—From Archmaester Yohn’s Unquiet Ghosts: The Closing Years of the Chaotic 3rd Century, Weirbough Press_

The rain began shortly before dawn, as Ulla watched small handfuls of people running back and forth through Iron Holt’s streets, buying bread or salt cod or kelp before it became too dangerous to venture outdoors.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Turning, she saw Yara standing behind her.

“No.” The Lady Reaper of Pyke sighed heavily. “I…I just hope we’ve done enough.”

“The glass gardens are covered over, and the Storm God can’t hurt the kelp or mussel lines. The fish will come back, and our roofs are strong.” Her castellan’s fingers touched the window. “You’ve done the most you could.”

“I…I hope. Our guests?”

Yara’s brow furrowed. “Not awake yet. ’Twas halfway to the second bells when they made landfall.”

“Very well. Let me know when they’ve awoken, please.”

“Of course, my lady.”

She heard Yara close the door behind her as she left.

Ulla hadn’t seen Joron Farwynd in nearly a year. The Lord of Sealskin Point had been her strong right hand as a boy, her first mate and bodyguard. _Something’s changed, though._ The Farwynds had ever been a strange folk, and Joron seemed to have finally fallen victim to the same.

_The only other one who knows the truth of it all, besides Dalt._

She heard a heavy rap on the door.

“Enter.”

Ulla turned, and almost gasped aloud.

Joron was leaning against the doorjamb, clad in nothing but a pair of sharkskin leggings. Grey was beginning to steal into his hair, but not in the way that it had touched hers: rather than streaks, he had dots of white throughout his head. The hair on his chest was white, with black spots, and his eyes…she’d heard rumours, but it was shocking all the same, to see the same seaglass-green in eyes that had been brown when they’d sailed together.

“You seem surprised.” The Lord of Sealskin Point smiled, without it ever reaching his eyes.

“You’ve…you look different.”

“So do you.” Joron seated himself at her table, his burly arms crossed.

“Your eyes…why? How?”

“The sea claims its price, Ulla. Even from me. You saw Urri, didn’t you?”

“I assumed they were from his mother.”

“They are.” Joron fell quiet, his eyes turning towards the blackening sky.

“The Storm God’s turned on us, it seems.”

“I…I’m afraid it’s me.”

It was a fear that had haunted her ever since the first captains began to warn of a gathering storm, one that she’d spoken to no one else.

Her old first mate turned towards her again. “Why?”

“I’ve…I’ve changed so much here. If it’s the wrath of the One Who Dwells Beneath The Waves, for abandoning the Old Way, then…”

“No.” His voice was firm. “It was never His will that our children die in their cradles, that these islands be desolate and harsh. All that we have built here is from the sea, Ulla. And this is the work of the Storm God, not His.”

She felt strangely comforted.

“Urri serves you well?”

She nodded quickly. “Very well. His intelligence is impeccable, even from the East.”

“Good.” Joron’s smile reached his eyes for just a moment. “Ulla…once this storm passes, you shall have to summon your banners. All of us.”

She tipped her head to one side. “I…what do you mean?”

“The farce is almost over, my lady. The pretence. You shall have to be ready.”

“I…what?” She felt panic in the back of her throat. “We aren’t! Not—“

“The dragons aren’t so united as they appear, and soon it grows less so.” His seaglass eyes fixed hers. “I’ve dreamed again, of the future more than the past, such as I haven’t in many a year, old Captain. A tower sinking in the warm seas of the south, dragging a wyvern to a watery death. A drowning lion wrestling a wolf in the high hills, and a stoat turned brave and fierce as either.”

“What do they mean?” She was feeling increasingly worried. Joron’s eyes were much wider than she’d ever seen them.

“I know not, but this…this will be a good day for you.”

She laughed harshly. “A good day? We’re getting hit by the worst storm I’ve ever seen!”

“You’re well-prepared for it, Ulla. Others aren’t.” With that, Joron rose. “I’ve to see to my daughters, they’re yet asleep, so—ah.”

The last word came as Quellon’s head poked around the door. “Grand—oh.”

“No, it’s all right, I was just going, lad.” Joron slipped around Quellon with a strange agility, vanishing into the corridor.

“Come in.” Ulla gestured for her grandson to take a seat.

He did, looking over his shoulder warily. “I didn’t know Lord Farwynd was going to be here.”

“He arrived very late in the night, love.” Quel was clearly uncomfortable. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, just…I’m sorry, are the two of you..”

“No. Joron’s a dear friend, but no.” She’d had others in her bed since Quel’s grandfather had died, but no men, and never for very long. “He was just awake rather early, that’s all. You didn't—-eh, _interrupt_ anything.”

A smile twitched around Quel’s lips. “Thank the God, though maybe not for all this.”

“Aye.”

The two of them looked out the window for a while, as the rain began to beat down on the roofs below.

 _I have to tell them, and soon._ Dalt had been nearing thirty when she did, but El and Quel wouldn’t have as much time as their father had, if what Joron said was true. _I’ve bided my time so long, I…I never thought it would come to this._ Aerys Targaryen was far stronger than she could ever hope to be, his House the largest and richest west of the Narrow Sea. She’d thought it would take decades to reach the point that Joron believed to be coming in a matter of days.

_Are they ready, though?_

_Or will they ever be?_

+++

By midday, the wind was howling through every crevice in the castle, and Ulla could see it tugging at the roofs of Iron Holt as she caught up on paperwork. They had more than enough coin set aside for the expected damages: Iron Islands buildings were almost all stone, making it difficult for all but the most vicious storms to really damage them. The only exception was the Lordsport Citadel, where the contents of the Driftwood Shop had been moved underground.

“The heart of the storm’s passing over Harlaw now.”

She looked up to see Urrigon standing at the entrance to her solar.

“Really?” She stretched her arms, feeling soreness in her shoulders. “Damage so far?”

“Minimal.” Joron’s second son had a thin smile on his face. “They disassembled the glass gardens to keep the panes from shattering, canvassed the roofs where they could, and hauled the boats ashore. I was really very impressed.”

“Good to hear.” The Redirons were the most powerful of her bannermen, and could float only five ships fewer than House Wynch.

“And…one of the Seals is ready to report a great success.”

Her brow furrowed. “A great…oh.”

Oh.

“Give me a moment.” Urrigon vanished into the corridor, reappearing a moment later with a much younger woman, her black hair lank at her shoulders. Ulla shivered briefly when she saw the woman’s eyes—seaglass green again, but…only for a moment, As she watched, they changed to blue-green, then a piercing electric blue.

“My lady, this is Gwiedorre Stonehouse.”

“ _Mevrouw Vynch._ ” The woman bowed from the waist. The Silent Seals used the Iron Tongue—the language of the Iron Islands from before the time of the Andals, spoken in only a few villages on the Lonely Light and the Wyks. Ulla had learned it shortly after Dalt’s birth, and most ironborn children since she had been named Lady Reaper could at least hold a simple conversation.

While on the surface, it looked like an expression of Iron Islands pride, the Tongue had another advantage: no greenlander could speak or understand it.

“ _Goede morgen, Mevrouw Steenenhuis.”_ Ulla dipped her head. “ _You’ve news to share with me?”_

_“Ja. The eldest dragon spawn flew westward shortly before the Storm God beset us, and fares ill thus far.”_

_“He is where?”_

_“The Arbour. The Storm God’s hand will brush the isle shortly, Mevrouw.”_ Gwiedorre’s eyes had changed colour again, this time to a strange mix of auburn and brown. “ _All that needed doing was done afore his departure.”_

_“Are you suspected?”_

_“Neither me, nor my catspaws, Mevrouw. The spawn is unlikely to set his eyes on his nest again.”_

_“Very well. To your work again, Mevrouw Steenenhuis. Dank u well voor uw dienst.”_

_“Alstublieft.”_ The woman bowed as she left, Urrigon following her moments later.

Ulla realised that her fist was clenched, and slowly relaxed her hand.

Five people in all of the Iron Islands had thousand-shade eyes like Gwiedorre’s, and every single one of them was a Silent Seal. She’d instructed Joron, and then Urrigon when he took over the role, to keep a close eye for any such child born on her lands. _Worth their weight in gold or silver or any metal that one cares to name, they are._ And dangerous. She trusted her bannermen with her life…just not with that of a thousand-shade-eyed child.

 _Stonehouse, though? That’s quite strange._ Old Wyk was…closer to the old way than Pyke or Harlaw, but the other four of them were from the remote islands of the Lonely Light Farwynds. _No matter._

“Mother?”

The voice was soft, and she looked up to see Serra, her son’s wife, at the door with little Nute in her arms.

“My dear girl.” She smiled as Serra entered, balancing her grandson on her hip. “You’re doing well?”

“Yes, the children are at their lessons now. El’s getting quite good with her numbers.”

“Is she now?”

“Yes, I…Dalt said that you were thinking about training them with the Seals?”

Ulla took a deep breath. “I am. It would be…better if they know how the dirty work of ruling is done.”

“Even El?”

“She’ll be a great lady some day, Serra.” Ulla took Nute, smiling as he waved his chubby fists. _He really looks like Serr’s father._

“Have you started making matches already?” There was an edge to her gooddaughter’s voice. Serra was a good-tempered woman, but Ulla knew that she often felt like a guest in her own home, as her husband wasn’t yet a lord in his own right. _And I know that because your chambermaid whispers into my ear. Thank the Drowned God that_ you’re _not the one who’ll be following me._

“No,” the older woman answered truthfully. “For El, no.”

“And Quel?”

“I have.”

She could see Serra’s jaw tense up. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Nothing’s settled yet, and it’s not something I can discuss further right now.” Quellon’s betrothal was one of the most powerful cards that she held. Dalt’s had been done to secure her bannermen, as the Stonehouses held the entirety of Old Wyk, and were married into the powerful Sailwrights. Quel and El’s would play out on a much broader stage. _Nute’s as well, when the time comes. And Al…well, that’ll be a little different._

“I see.”

“Serra, I wouldn’t choose someone that will make Quel unhappy. The girl’s sweet-tempered, strong-hearted and capable.”

“Is she in the islands?”

“No.”

“The greenlands?”

“No, and I can answer no more. Dunstan the Younger’s met her, though.”

That mollified Serra; the heir to Saltcliffe was nothing if not well-liked among his peers—and one of Ulla’s most trusted captains. He’d trained with the Seals himself, and was her first choice for covert voyages.

_And this one could’ve made or broken a kingdom._

_I still don’t know which it was._

+++

The storm came to an end by the evening meal, and Ulla was dining with her family when she heard the door open.

“Just a moment, my sweet.” Alannys, her younger granddaughter, had been showing her a beautiful drawing she’d made in charcoal. The girl was…well, not feeble, but she’d been born very different from her siblings, unable to read faces or interest herself in more than a few things. _Though her drawings are a wonder._ She hoped that she’d be able to make Al a match with the Farwynds when the time came: they were all very strange themselves, after all.

As she turned, she felt Urri bend down behind her, his breath tickling her ear.

“It’s done.”

She nodded very subtly, and turned back to the table, her heart hammering. Dalt caught her eye, only for her to shake him off. He’d know soon enough, after all. Joron was seated beside Quel, but looked up. Ulla nodded again, and saw grim satisfaction flash across the Farwynd lord’s face.

 _There’s no turning back now._ What she had unleashed upon the greenlands would destroy Aerys’ armies in a heartbeat, or shatter the mighty cities of the Trident, or even fell their wyverns. It wouldn’t come to pass in one day…but nor had it been built in just one.

 _Five years, maybe. How long from the sowing to the reaping before the Dance?_ Aerys was older, much older, than Viserys had been, so it wouldn’t be quite so long.

_Forty years waiting, I can manage another moon’s turn._


End file.
